


Trade Secrets

by fictionalkid



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Anal Sex, Arguments, Attempted Murder, Blackmail, Blow Jobs, Bottom Hannibal Lecter, Bottom Will Graham, Canon-Typical Violence, Car Sex, Catching feelings for each other, Dark Will Graham, Denial of Feelings, Developing Relationship, Dinner dates, Dom/sub Undertones, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Gay Sex, Gun Kink, Guns, Hannibal Lecter is Whipped, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Hannibal Lecter is a Little Shit, Hannibal is very persistent, Hannibal's therapy room, Invasion of Privacy, M/M, Manipulative Hannibal Lecter, Manipulative Will Graham, Masturbation, Murder, Murder Kink, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Romantic Gestures, Roses, Sassy Will Graham, Serial Killer Will Graham, Serial Killers, Suspense, The Ladder Scene (Hannibal), Top Hannibal Lecter, Top Will Graham, Topping from the Bottom, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Violent Fantasies, Weapons, Will Graham is So Done, Will Graham is a Cannibal, Will Graham is a contract killer, but with a creepy twist that's more like harassment, love-hate relationship, opera - Freeform, slight kinkshaming, so many roses...
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-12 15:47:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28638009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionalkid/pseuds/fictionalkid
Summary: Will Graham kills people because he gets paid good money for it. Hannibal Lecter kills people because he is a serial-killing cannibal. What happens when by pure chance, these two killers end up in the same place, at the same time, targeting the same guy?
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 167
Kudos: 475





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I had a thought, WHAT IF Will had chosen to become a contract killer instead of going to work at the FBI? And WHAT IF Hannibal was a lonely cannibal who likes the company of pretty men and is unapologetic about it? Read to find out what happens!

It’s always kind of awkward when people ask Will what he does for a living. He rotates through vague answers like “independent contractor”, “removalist, of sorts”, and “people pay me to solve their problems”. He isn’t exactly stellar at socialising, especially not when it comes to discussing jobs, so eventually, everyone stops asking. _Contract Kill Will_ does have a comical ring to it, but it isn’t a nickname - or an occupation, for that matter - that he can reveal to normal people. Although, having to keep the precise nature of his job secret is only a minor inconvenience compared to the very enticing paychecks Will receives, so he can’t complain. 

Tonight, he is perched on the roof of a warehouse overlooking a deserted dock. As expected, his target comes into view in a few minutes. Will brings his eye to the scope of his sniper rifle and follows the man’s movements through the little glass magnifier. His hand is already in position, index finger resting on the trigger, itching with anticipation but not pulling it just yet, as he aligns the middle of the viewfinder with the man’s head. 

The man is standing on the dock, hastily loading questionable-looking cargo into a small boat. Will doesn’t know what kind of cargo exactly, and he doesn’t particularly care. More than likely, it has something to do with why he’s been hired to get rid of this person. Will knows that his job comes with two very important unwritten rules: don’t ask questions, and if you see anything you’re not supposed to be seeing, keep your mouth shut.

And that is exactly what Will intends to do. He isn’t concerned with other people’s business, only his own. There is no one around, he’s got a clear shot, and his car is parked nearby to ensure a quick getaway from the crime scene. 

Overall, the job looks easy-peasy, trigger squeezy, blowing-the-brains-out kind of cheesy. 

Then, out of the corner of his eye that isn’t glued to the scope, Will notices something moving. 

He leans forward past the gun to take a proper, unobstructed look. There is a dark, tall figure briskly approaching the dock. Will is positioned too far away to see proper details, but the mysterious person seems to be shining in the dark, moonlight reflecting off his clothes as if he’s wearing a one-piece suit made entirely of transparent plastic. 

Will quirks an eyebrow, internally judging such a ridiculous outfit choice. The strange man moves silently and with elegance, quickly making his way right towards Will’s target, who is still too distracted depositing boxes onto the boat to notice anything going on around him. 

The next thing Will sees is a smooth movement of the plastic-clad man’s arm, a glint of a blade, and a spray of arterial blood erupting from the target’s neck as it’s sliced open. Will lets out a breath he didn’t realise he’s been holding. He stays still and watches, as if suspended in time and place, as the enigmatic killer drags away the gurgling and bleeding mess that was once the man Will was intending to kill.

Once they’ve disappeared from view, dissolving into the dark woods that line the shore, a deafening silence envelopes the dock. All Will can hear is his own heart ricocheting in his chest as he slowly but surely starts to see red. 

Will is pissed. 

He is _fucking furious_. 

This job was going to cover his expenses for the whole upcoming month. There’s mortgage and bills and Will’s seven dogs that need food, as does Will himself. And now, this godforsaken knight in shining plastic has ruined it all. 

His target is dead, which is good, in the grand scheme of things. But it’s not _good enough_ , not for Will’s employer’s standards. Technically, the job is done, but not by Will, so he can’t take credit. Even if he tried, he doesn’t have any proof to take back to his employer. He won’t get paid without proof - the very specific kind of proof that his employer demands - and he knows the people in this business aren’t stupid enough to just take his word for it. 

He’s got a meeting scheduled the day after tomorrow with a man known by the alias Z, who is Will’s only point of contact for communicating with his employer. They usually meet at a park or another busy and inconspicuous location. Will hands over the discreet little package that contains the proof of a completed job, and Z gives him the cash. The arrangement is nice and simple, as long as everything goes according to plan. And it always has, for Will. 

Until now. 

Will didn’t hit the target. Someone else did. Which means that Will failed the job. And in this line of work, failure isn’t something that is tolerated at all. This isn’t high school where you can turn in a half-complete assignment several days after the due date and get away with some light scolding from the teacher. Will’s job is a whole different kind of institution, with a whole different kind of assignment, and he knows that if his work isn’t flawlessly executed, or on time, he’s most likely going to end up with a bullet planted firmly inside his skull in the next 24 hours. 

So, not only is Will running out of money, but he’s also in another predicament that is much more serious. 

And he has until his meeting with Z to figure this out. Will has two days. Two days and too many unanswered questions. 

Who is the plastic suit killer? Is he another assassin from a different employer, hired to kill the same man as Will? Or was he, perhaps, hired by Will’s employer because he doesn’t trust Will to complete the job? That would be highly insulting; Will has never failed an assignment, never been late or asked for an extension, and never charged more than the job warrants. Normally, he would feel offended at such disrespect towards his reputation, but instead, he feels terrified. 

Will needs answers, and he needs them fast. He supposes the only person that can provide them would be the plastic suit killer. 

So, he springs into action. 

Will bolts down the steps leading out of the warehouse building, haphazardly separating the rifle from its mounts and shoving all components into his backpack as he sprints straight to his car. If he lets this mysterious man get away now, he’ll never be able to find him again.

There is a faint rumble of another car’s engine in the distance, and Will can spot a flash of grey metal pass between the trees, deducing that this must be the other killer exiting the crime scene. Will starts his own engine, keeping his headlights off in order to stay camouflaged by the darkness, and begins to discreetly follow the grey car. 

Shadowing people, both driving or on foot, is a key skill required for Will’s job - besides the trigger-pulling, obviously. He’s done this so many times before that it’s easy to maintain the precise balance of staying close enough where he can see the vehicle that is his new target, but far enough where it doesn’t create suspicion. He follows the killer all the way to the centre of Baltimore and watches the car disappear into the garage of a rather prestigious-looking property. Will imprints the address into his memory, so that he can do his research and come back later. 

Being quick and efficient at finding personal information about targets is another skill every contract killer needs to have. By the next morning, Will has determined that the man residing at 317 Rivington Drive, Baltimore, Maryland is Dr. Hannibal Lecter. He snorts as he learns that Dr. Lecter’s day occupation is psychiatrist; those poor people have no idea that they’re receiving therapy from a cold-blooded murderer. What an absolute disgrace to the Hippocratic oath, Will thinks with a chuckle. 

He spends the rest of the day watching this so-called psychiatrist, following his movements from the house to the clinic he owns and back. Will noticed the previous night that the suburb is rather affluent, but now, in broad daylight, it fully dawns on him how obscenely wealthy Dr. Lecter is. Not only does his residence look spacious and extravagant, but he also drives a Bentley that probably cost five times more than Will’s car. If he were a thief, this would’ve been a goldmine. Fortunately for Dr. Lecter, Will’s only intentions are to snoop around the house to find answers as to who the man is behind the psychiatrist facade.

Breaking and entering is the third skill every assassin needs in order to be successful, which is why Will always brings his lock-picking tools to every stakeout. The tools are invaluable when it comes to getting into buildings and roofs, to find secluded spots with stable horizontal surfaces to mount his sniper rifle onto. 

From his hiding place, Will sees that Dr. Lecter leaves his lavish residence around dinner time. Does he have a dinner date? Is he going out to kill another unfortunate soul? Will doesn’t know, nor does he care. A perfect opportunity has presented itself in the form of the empty house, and he has to stay focused. 

Picking the back door of Dr. Lecter’s extravagant property is a piece of cake, as is disarming the security alarm. Will steps inside, making sure to move silently, just in case. He glides swiftly past the sumptuous dining hall, making his way towards a large space that looks like the living room. The house is gigantic and has many rooms, making it seem like a maze. Or a museum, perhaps, considering the plethora of antique furniture and ancient-looking art pieces everywhere. Will only has a small flashlight to illuminate his way, and he flicks the beam of light along the long corridor, searching for a room where one would hide information pertaining to their secret identity as a killer. 

Will soon discovers a small study with a pristine-looking wooden desk, which seems like something he’s looking for. He creeps into the room, wondering if the desk drawers will have hidden compartments that he’ll need to uncover. Or, if Dr. Lecter has a safe here somewhere. That would be a major setback for Will, since his lock-picking tools can’t open safes. He makes his way to the desk, gloved hand curling around the knob of the first drawer. 

Will sincerely hopes that he is able to quickly find what he’s looking for and leave the house undetected. He has to meet Z in just over 24 hours, which means he most likely won’t get another opportunity to snoop around Dr. Lecter’s residence like this. He prays to every god and goddess he knows, asking for luck to be on his side in this risky endeavour. As Will searches through the contents of the drawer, he contemplates whether he should be praying to the devil instead. He doubts the gods in heaven would like him very much considering that he kills other people for money. 

Suddenly, there is a voice behind him. 

“Good evening, Mr. Graham. I don’t believe we’ve met before.” 

Will flinches and turns on his heels at the speed of a Formula 1 car. The flashlight slips from his grip, hitting the floor with a clattering sound. Miraculously, it doesn’t switch off, and the beam of light faintly illuminates the doorway where Dr. Lecter is standing, his figure looming tall and dangerous. 

Will’s heart sinks to his stomach, then down to his feet, past the floor, burrowing six feet under, and settling into his imminent grave. The rest of his body will likely follow soon, now that he’s been caught digging around a killer’s house. Clearly, said killer was expecting him, lying in wait in the shadows of his seemingly empty house. The man knows Will’s name, which means he’s researched Will just as much as Will has researched him. 

Wow. The gods must really fucking hate him. 

Will swallows hard, grits his teeth and clears his throat, just to make sure that when he speaks, his voice comes through unwavering and unafraid. 

“Consider this an introduction, then, Dr. Lecter.” 

Will knows how to play the game. It’s all about appearing bold, confident and fearless, no matter how petrified he is on the inside. He forces his muscles to relax and arranges his limbs into an unbothered, casual stance, looking the man in front of him dead in the eyes. 

Dr. Lecter’s finger brushes the lightswitch, and the ceiling light turns on, presumably so that Will can see just how malevolent and lethal he is. Though, Will is secretly thankful for the well-lit room, because he isn’t particularly excellent at hand-to-hand combat to begin with, and fighting in the dark would be straight-up suicide. Will braces his body before the imminent attack, but almost a minute passes and it doesn’t happen, so he lets his eyes slowly wander up and down Dr. Lecter’s body.

He’s dressed in a deep maroon suit with golden accents, accompanied by a floral print tie of matching shades. His dark hair is streaked with blond and grey, meticulously parted and combed to the side. Will knows the man has an expensive taste, but he didn’t expect him to look like a goddamn model from a high-class men’s formalwear advertisement. Dr. Lecter is the very definition of refined style; every part of his appearance is perfectly put together, and he carries himself with such dignity and grace that only gods can possess. 

And then, there’s his face. Flawless skin, sharp jawline, high cheekbones, overall the kind of look that would make your heart stop. Figuratively or literally. Dr. Lecter’s eyes are dark brown, rich and decadent like aged artisan chocolate; though, probably laced with venom that would poison you instantly. Judging by the way he expertly cut a man’s throat at the dock, Will deduces it isn’t the first time he’s killed. Will wonders how many unsuspecting people have fallen for those deliciously dangerous eyes, or for the generally handsome appearance. Is this how he lures in his victims, seducing them with his attractive face and thick wallet? 

The entire time Will is lost in his musings, Dr. Lecter continues to appraise him with unrestrained curiosity. His gaze is apprehensive and calculating. _Intrigued_. 

“I presume that you’re not here to steal from me, otherwise you would’ve pocketed my antiques already,” he speaks.

The voice matches everything that Will has already learned about the man; it’s smooth and poised, with the kind of a respectable and domineering timbre that makes people subconsciously bow their heads whenever he talks. But not Will. 

“Correct,” Will answers, raising his chin in defiance. 

Dr. Lecter tilts his head to the side, sharp eyes burrowing into Will, intending to penetrate him to the core and see what he’s truly made of. But Will’s mask of cool courage doesn’t crumble under that piercing gaze, doesn’t even crack. In his line of work, Will has had to deal with all kinds of intimidation that’s way worse than this. He wouldn’t have been able to earn his reputation as an esteemed assassin and attain high-paying clients if he wasn’t capable of holding his ground, asserting his terms and price in a way that’s non-negotiable, and challenging those who dare to undervalue his work.

Even if the situation Will currently finds himself in is terrifying him to the bone, there is no way in hell he’s going to let it show. 

“What is it that you’re looking for, then?” Dr. Lecter enquires.

What Will expected as he came face to face with this aristocratic killer was a vicious fight to the death, not a suspiciously peaceful interrogation. He is much more accustomed to handling his business from metres away with a sniper rifle, not up close and personal. Although Dr. Lecter hasn’t yet tried to close the distance between them, the situation makes Will feel rather claustrophobic. He’s uncomfortable, but at least he isn’t dead, _yet_ , so perhaps that says something. 

“I need answers,” Will says, for lack of a better response in the moment. 

“What are your questions? Please, humour me.” 

Dr. Lecter’s lips curve into a small smile, a tight quirk of his lips that’s deceitful without a doubt, just like his eyes. Everything about the man exudes an air of complacency and arrogance that unnerves Will. He sure has the home couch advantage, but Will isn’t going to go down without a fight. Though, he’s strongly inclined to do everything in his power to avoid ending up in a fight, as the consequences of such an event would undoubtedly be fatal to one or both of them.

So, Will decides to keep talking. He crosses his arms in front of his chest, narrows his eyes and challenges the man’s smug smile with his own, putting a cocky and unimpressed expression on his face.

“Who do you work for?” Will asks coolly. 

Dr. Lecter quirks an eyebrow in slight amusement at the question.

“Only myself.”

As if Will is going to believe that. 

“I’m not talking about your psychiatry clinic,” he presses, rolling his eyes. 

“I know exactly what you’re talking about, Mr. Graham,” the man in front of him counters without batting an eye, “The answer remains: only myself.”

Now, it’s Will’s turn to raise his eyebrows. 

“So, you’re saying that what I saw you do at the dock yesterday wasn’t _a job assignment_?” 

“Yes. A leisure activity, rather.” 

Will’s eyes narrow even further and he feels irritation creep up his spine and tighten his already tense muscles. 

“Your leisure activity just cost me five fucking figures,” he spits out.

He doesn’t want to know what personal reasons Dr. Lecter would’ve had to kill the guy that was Will’s target. Hell, he doesn’t want to know what kind of man thinks of killing people as _leisure_. He feels the irritation inside him turn into anger, igniting a hellfire of wrath directed at this stranger with his ridiculous plastic one-piece, who not only stopped Will from getting paid but potentially also ruined his relationship with his employer. 

Will wants to punch all the elegance and perfect composure off the bastard’s face. Maybe even slit his throat just like he did to the man that was supposed to be Will’s paycheck. An eye for an eye. Dr. Lecter may have tricked and cornered him, but Will has a gun tucked in the waistband of his black jeans, and he isn’t afraid to use it. He pulls triggers for a living, after all. 

The violent images in Will’s mind are interrupted by Dr. Lecter speaking again. 

“Wouldn’t that mean I did you a favour? You can claim him as one of yours, I won’t object,” he offers. 

What, Mr. Plastic Suit is trying to be nice all of the sudden? 

“Too late for that,” Will scoffs, “My employer needs proof. Proof from the body.”

Dr. Lecter considers him for a moment, as if trying to decide whether to tell the truth or lie, weighing up the risks and rewards of his honesty. 

“What do you need from the body?” he asks eventually.

“Anything. The gnarlier the better.” 

Normally, Will’s clients request something tame like photos as proof, but his regular employer is a sick fuck who keeps body parts of his victims as trophies. One time, Will delivered him a gouged out eyeball. Z had been so mortified that it shone through his usual facade of indifference, but as Will learned later, his employer had been very pleased with the gift. So yes, the gnarlier the better. 

“Would a kidney suffice?” Dr. Lecter sounds astonishingly casual, as if asking how Will likes his coffee.

A kidney? A _fucking kidney?_ Who would be deranged and sadistic enough to rip a body open and extract a whole organ like that? Certainly not Will. He only took the eyeball because it happened to fall out on its own, probably an indirect courtesy of where his bullet hit. Usually, Will chooses easy trophies like teeth or skull fragments, because those can be removed fairly effortlessly and with minimal amount of savage force. 

“A kidney?” Will repeats, still in disbelief. 

Dr. Lecter’s nonchalant expression doesn’t falter.

“Do you want it or not?” 

Will conceals a shudder and nods. The man disappears into the dark, his footsteps echoing down the corridor until they can’t be heard anymore. 

Will considers running, just taking off, sprinting to the door and out, never looking back. He can get away unharmed and pretend all of this was just a hellish nightmare. 

Though, then, he’d still have the problem of having nothing to deliver to his employer and having to face the ugly consequences of failing that assignment. Besides, it’s utterly absurd that Dr. Lecter hasn’t killed him yet, and is in fact helping him with his problem. A blessing in disguise? Will is curious to find out, which is why he stays put. 

Several minutes later, Dr. Lecter returns, holding a small tightly-wrapped bundle. Encased by transparent plastic, there is a reddish brown bean-shaped mass. It looks like those professionally packaged meat products you get from a butcher, for god’s sake. Will just stares, unable to even blink, as the kidney is placed into his hand. The organ is cold to the touch, and Will deduces it must have come from the freezer. 

“Are you eating him or something?” Will huffs, unable to stop an incredulous laugh escaping from his mouth at the thought.

Again, Dr. Lecter seems unfazed by Will’s dumbfounded reaction. 

“Would it alarm you if I was?” he queries, tone perfectly neutral. 

“No,” Will replies, quickly regaining his composure. “I don’t meet many _cannibals_ in my line of work. I’m just… intrigued.”

Of course this eccentric guy is a goddamn cannibal. He’s got an odd sense of style and a very unorthodox taste for leisure activities, so it would make sense for him to have an unconventional diet too. Will has seen a lot of sick and twisted people during his time of being a contract killer, as well as in his previous job as a New Orleans cop, but he hasn’t yet seen _this_. With his stunning looks and an overall charming demeanor, it seems that Dr. Lecter is able to flip the concept of ‘sick and twisted’ upside down and turn it into something weirdly enticing and tasteful. 

Maybe Will is a deranged sadist after all, for being fascinated instead of repulsed by this organ-eating monster of a man. 

“Since my lifestyle seems to have piqued your interest, I’d like to have you for dinner some time,” Dr. Lecter says then. 

Unable to keep it down anymore, Will breaks into a loud, almost hysterical laugh. The harsh, sneering sound falls from his lips and fills the otherwise quiet room, bouncing off the walls. It’s a nervous, disbelieving and plain cynical laughter; a perfect representation of the bizarre situation he’s in. 

Dr. Lecter isn’t as clever as he looks. Will can immediately see the hidden threat that the seemingly harmless invitation to dinner contains.

It’s ridiculous, it’s hilarious, and it’s un-fucking-believable. Hence, the only natural reaction for Will is to laugh. 

“You want to have me for dinner as the dish. Not as the guest,” he points out sardonically, shaking his head.

“Quite the contrary,” Dr. Lecter objects, pursing his lips and looking mildly displeased that Will thought he had sinister motives, “I have no intention of eating you.” 

“Why did you invite me then?” 

“As you would probably know, this lifestyle we lead makes us prone to loneliness. I would appreciate the company.”

Now, that’s a statement Will can relate to. Having close friends, let alone a romantic partner, in his line of work is a _liability_ , something he can’t afford to have. Will tells himself that the loneliness doesn’t bother him, that he doesn’t long for companionship, that he’s not built to be a social person. Perhaps, in a different world, in a different kind of job, he would stay in contact with his family, have a wide circle of friends, and maybe get a boyfriend or girlfriend. Or a husband or wife, even. 

But not in this life. Getting close to another person would mean putting them at risk of being used as a gambling chip, if Will were to piss off the big bosses. He’s chosen this dangerous life for himself, knowing the risks and rewards, but he would never let anyone else get entangled in it. 

As an established freelance assassin, the only kind of company over dinner Will can picture himself having would be… well, another killer. And if Will is perfectly honest with himself, Dr. Lecter wouldn’t be bad company. Quite the opposite; he is incredibly well-mannered, intelligent and pleasant to talk to. And the way he looks at Will with his dark eyes is insatiable, almost lustful, and makes Will’s ,body heat up in return.

Since when has he found murderers attractive?

Will finds it difficult to blame himself though; Dr. Lecter has a very handsome face and a lean, muscular body. The suit he’s wearing is making it hard to see, but Will can tell he must be physically fit, based on how effortlessly he killed a man and lifted his body into the trunk. An all-round great partner, if it weren’t for the fact that he’s a killer.

Then again, so is Will. 

Will has to consciously halt his thoughts to prevent them from getting too far ahead, sneaking off into the dangerous territory of wishful thinking. Whatever Dr. Lecter has in mind isn’t a date. They don’t even know each other. Hell, they might still be trying to kill each other. Just because Will has been invited to have dinner with the man - as colleagues, for lack of a better term - it doesn’t mean he won’t end up being the next body in Dr. Lecter’s trunk and the next meat dish on his table. 

“Are you available on Thursday evening, 6 o’clock?” the man queries, breaking Will out of his musings. 

Will takes a moment to deliberate whether he should accept or decline the invitation, trying to determine which of the two options would result in the smallest likelihood of him being murdered by a killer that is so desperate for company. He deduces that if he agrees to join Dr. Lecter for dinner in a few days, at least he will walk out of this house unharmed tonight. Then, later, he will be able to decide what to make of this rather unexpected turn of events, and whether he’s actually going to follow through with the dinner plans. 

Will casts his eyes upwards, as if trying to recall his schedule in order to give the man an answer. Though, he knows very well that he doesn’t have any plans. Will never has any plans. He spends all his free time fishing, looking after his dogs, and occasionally repairing boat motors, just to make it look like he has a normal day job. 

“Yeah, I’m free,” Will responds with a small smile, one that shows he’s interested, but not _too_ interested. 

“I will see you then, Mr. Graham,” Dr. Lecter concludes, giving him a smile in return. 

Though, it isn’t just a smile, it’s an entire performance. As his eyes meet Will’s, the man runs a tongue over his lips and then parts them, revealing a neat row of teeth, pearl-white pointy canines shining in the moonlight. It makes Will think of Dracula, charming and mysterious, with his wealthy castle and taste for blood. 

As he parts with Dr. Lecter for the night and lets his feet carry him out into the cold night air, he wonders what that mouth would taste like.

Maybe, on Thursday night at 6 o’clock, Will is going to get murdered in that extravagant house, cursing himself for being naive and allowing himself to be seduced by that endearing smile. Or maybe, he’s going to kill Dr. Lecter before he can get to Will. Or maybe, if the stars align and Will gets lucky, they’re going to give each other _little deaths_ of a whole different kind.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal sets down his fork and looks Will right in the eyes. His golden-brown irises give way to rapidly enlarging pupils as his eyes lock onto Will’s, the same way the scope of Will’s sniper rifle zeroes on the target. 
> 
> “Did I not say that I would strip you after serving you dinner?” the man asks.

How does one dress for a date — no, _just a dinner_ — with a serial killer?

Will rummages through the contents of his closet in a frustrated frenzy. He discovers that he owns exactly one nice dress shirt. It’s salmon-coloured and a little big on him, but paired with slicked back hair and a charming smile, it shouldn’t look too bad. 

Next, pants. Will settles on simple black slacks. They’re truly a must-have for everyone’s wardrobe; figure-hugging and formal enough for fancy dinner parties, but simultaneously stretchy and comfortable to dress in for contract kill missions. Maybe it’s incredibly practical to own an all-purpose pair of pants, or maybe Will is just uncultured and thinks it’s socially acceptable to wear the same pants every time he leaves the house. Either way, this whole dilemma of dressing up for dinner shouldn’t be a big deal. 

But it feels like it is.

It totally feels like he needs to look good for his date. No, _not a date_. His business acquaintance? His colleague? There is no name for the strange relationship he has with Dr. Lecter. Will just knows that the two times that he’s seen him, he was dressed with impeccable taste; tailored three-piece suits, perfectly colour-matched ties, and polished shoes. That means Will has to look presentable too, if not to impress the man, then to fit in with the aristocratic atmosphere of Dr. Lecter’s colossal residence. 

Will checks himself out in the mirror and takes a sip of his favourite liquid courage. When he delivered the kidney — generous courtesy of his new cannibal friend — to his employer, the man was very impressed and rewarded Will with an extra few hundred dollars on top of the agreed-upon paycheck. So, Will used that money to treat himself to a good-quality bottle of whiskey. 

The alcohol calms his nervousness regarding going to Dr. Lecter’s house, but has the complete opposite effect on a different part of Will. Thinking about the man’s attractive face, muscular body and smooth voice fills Will’s stomach with a rather exciting feeling.

Great. Not only does he have the ugliest occupation in the world, but he also has very questionable taste in men, since he’s agreed to have dinner with another killer. Could his life get any weirder? 

***

“Good evening, Mr. Graham,” Dr. Lecter greets, stepping to the side so Will can enter the house.

As predicted, he is wearing a three-piece suit, this time navy with a slight metallic shimmer. Every inch of his appearance is meticulously put together, down to the cobalt-blue cufflinks that perfectly match the shade of his tie. Overall, he is sinfully attractive, and Will isn’t sure if he likes the clothes because they compliment Dr. Lecter’s natural handsomeness or hates them for hiding most of the man’s body from view. 

“Hello, Dr. Lecter,” Will replies smoothly. 

His nostrils immediately catch a delicious smell coming from the dining room. Then again, delicious is probably not the most sensible word to use, considering that the man who is cooking him dinner is a literal people-eater. Is he going to serve human meat tonight? Will is intrigued.

“You look rather debonair tonight,” Dr. Lecter says and helps Will out of his coat, like a gentleman he is. “However, I must note that it’s rude to bring a gun to a dinner.” 

Will doesn’t react, except for a quirk of his eyebrow. He’s never been caught out like that before, especially in such an oddly calm and nonchalant manner. He gives Dr. Lecter an once-over with his eyes and notices something peculiar in the man’s posture. 

“It’s rude to open the door while holding a knife,” Will counters boldly. 

Dr. Lecter’s smile is all teeth; sharp and dangerous. It makes Will’s legs feel weak, but not just with fear. 

“Very well,” he concedes.

Will watches as the man smoothly takes out a scalpel that was hidden somewhere in his clothing — his sleeve, Will suspects — and sets it on top of a cabinet by the front door with a dull clink. It’s not quite the kind of weapon Will expected to see, but he was close enough in guessing the man’s intentions. Who the fuck carries a scalpel around? With his plastic suits and wannabe-surgeon habits, Dr. Lecter is becoming more and more eccentric with every passing second. 

“Please, Mr. Graham,” Dr. Lecter speaks again, his smile so wide and saccharine and his voice so sickly-sweet and coaxing that it borders on terrifying. 

He taps the top of the cabinet with his fingers; a seemingly innocent gesture that speaks volumes, infuriatingly insistent and even condescending. Is it really that obvious that Will has a gun tucked into his waistband? He rolls his eyes and places his weapon beside the scalpel. Dr. Lecter may be trying to engage him in some weird power play, but Will isn’t stupid enough to bring _just_ a gun with him.

“Happy now?” Will questions and raises his chin, “Or are you going strip search me for more concealed weapons?” 

Dr. Lecter’s poised demeanour doesn’t waver under Will’s provocation. 

“I pride myself on having impeccable manners, Mr. Graham. I would never consider stripping you without serving you dinner first.” 

And there it is; Will is so obviously, blatantly and shamelessly being hit on by a serial killer. And if there was even the slightest chance that he misinterpreted the man’s intentions, the way Dr. Lecter smiles at him disputes that possibility completely.

By now, Will is used to being intimidated by the most ruthless kind of people in the business and having to pass their tests before they deem him cut-throat enough to trust with their gun-for-hire endeavours. What he isn’t used to, though, is being _flirted with_ by a man of such caliber. As absurdly thrilling as it may be, Will isn’t going to let the act throw him off guard. Maybe it’s just another test he needs to pass, to prove how tough and daring he is. 

Several years ago, before he had strayed onto the path of killing people for money, Will may have blushed and averted his eyes when faced with such attempts at seduction. But that isn’t the man he is anymore. The Will Graham that he is now is hardened, smug, and not easily daunted. 

“Oh, so you’ve thought about stripping me,” Will challenges with a chuckle, “Is that why you invited me here?” 

“I was hoping to strip down to our first names, at the very least,” Dr. Lecter replies mildly. 

With that, the tension in the room drops as quickly as it initially sparked. _Backing down already, Mr. Cannibal?_ Maybe the man isn’t as domineering as Will initially thought. 

“Sure, _Hannibal_ ,” Will responds in a light tone. He makes sure to emphasise the name; a way of showing that he’s researched the man thoroughly and no introductions are necessary.

“Glad you agree, _Will._ ”

The man asserts dominance back by highlighting that he knows Will’s name too. Will resists the urge to roll his eyes. 

“What are we having?” he asks as he follows Hannibal to the dining room. 

He’d seen the large dining space once before when he crept around the house in the darkness, but now, with the lights on, it looks even more lavish and extravagant. The centrepiece of the long table is a magnificent arrangement made of antlers and flowers. Judging by the number of different forks and knives laid out just for the two of them, Will figures that he must be in for at least a three-course meal. 

“For entree, we have smoked salmon and caviar canapes. For the main course, roasted and rolled loin with peach and watercress salad. And after that we will have dessert, of course.”

Out of the decadent-sounding foods mentioned, one particular word piques Will’s interest. 

“What kind of loin?” he asks, lip quirking upwards into a curious grin.

“Mr. Murphy’s presence is far more pleasant on the table than at the table,” Hannibal responds smoothly, with a small wink that Will just barely catches out of the corner of his eye. 

He recognises the name as belonging to the unlucky man whose demise led to him and Hannibal meeting. Will didn’t know Mr. Murphy personally — he never does with his targets — so he simply has to trust Hannibal’s word that the man was indeed atrocious company. Will wonders why exactly he ended up as a dish on Hannibal’s dinner table, but he doesn’t ask. His line of work has taught him never to ask questions of that nature. 

Hannibal’s cooking tastes just as delicious as it looks and smells, and the canapes quickly disappear into their mouths as they engage in light small-talk. Although the appetiser course is more than delightful, Will can’t wait for the infamous loin. Eating human meat is a chilling and disturbing concept; something he didn’t think he’d ever encounter. On second thought, what in Will’s life isn’t disturbing? He is already going to hell for his crimes against humanity, so what more harm can some casual cannibalism do? 

Poor Mr. Murphy’s loin is served on two large plates, artistically garnished with vegetables and a swirl of sauce. It tastes much like a regular pork loin, only slightly tougher and stringier. If Will didn’t know what — or rather, _whom_ — he was eating, he wouldn’t think to question it. That said, what if Hannibal isn’t really a cannibal and is simply playing tricks on Will? That would be the exact kind of a sick joke a bizarre man like him would pull. 

Human or not, Will enjoys the meal tremendously and finishes everything on his plate. He doesn’t get to attend luxurious dinners like this very often, and his own cooking skills are quite subpar, to put it mildly. 

“You never specified what dessert we’re having,” Will notes, leaning back in his chair and eyeing Hannibal with the lazy curiosity of a sated animal. 

“How so, dear Will? I thought I made it perfectly clear,” Hannibal responds, genuine amusement dancing across his features. 

“Uh. No you didn’t,” Will counters. The form of endearment Hannibal used in front of his name makes him frown. 

Hannibal sets down his fork and looks Will right in the eyes. His golden-brown irises give way to rapidly enlarging pupils as his eyes lock onto Will’s, the same way the scope of Will’s sniper rifle zeroes on the target. 

“Did I not say that I would strip you after serving you dinner?” the man asks. 

“ _Oh_.” Will exhales slowly as the realisation dawns over him. 

All the while, Hannibal continues to look at him with a dark glint in his eyes. It’s something calculating, something carnivorous, like a predator ready to lunge. And as Will holds his gaze, he remembers that this isn’t just his paranoia talking; he is quite literally staring into the eyes of a killer. 

It makes him feel like prey, like a target, like being on the wrong end of the gun barrel. The feeling is so unbearable that Will blurts out the first thing he can think of to break the tension. 

“What? You gonna lick whipped cream off my stomach or something like that?” he shoots back with a teasing smirk. 

“I would be perfectly content to settle for more traditional acts, but your suggestion can certainly be incorporated if you so desire.” 

Will snorts. Engaging in sensual food play with a _cannibal_ is an all-round bad idea. Will may be eager to get to know Hannibal better, on a physical level for starters, but he isn’t going to be plain reckless when doing so. 

“Maybe later,” he replies sarcastically. 

“In that case, please allow me a moment to clear the plates. I’ll join you in the lounge in a minute. In the meantime, you are welcome to get acquainted with my humble selection of liquor, over at the back wall,” Hannibal suggests, standing up gracefully. 

Will nods and saunters into the lounge room. Considering that everything Hannibal owns is over-the-top extravagant, Will guesses that the said ‘humble’ liquor collection is anything but humble. Although he loves a good glass of wine after dinner as much as everyone else, it’s not a wise idea to numb his body and mind with alcohol while he’s visiting a serial killer’s house. Neither of them has mentioned anything relating to their shared murderous tendencies at all tonight, but it doesn’t mean Hannibal’s intentions are pure. Will figures that it’s better to keep his reflexes fast and his thinking sharp. 

Hannibal appears to be single, which is a red flag, all things considered. Maybe the man’s favourite pastime is to seduce and sleep with unsuspecting people, followed by killing and eating them. Maybe Will’s own flesh is going to provide the meat for the next unfortunate man or woman invited to have dinner at Hannibal’s place, and the fucked-up chain of cannibalism and murder will keep going forever? 

Will looks around the room in an apprehensive fashion as he waits for his host to return, impatiently tapping his foot and fidgeting with his hands. Among all the lavish vintage furniture, there is an old but pristine-looking harpsichord that catches Will’s eye.

He’d tried teaching himself to play piano, way before deciding that his fingers are better suited for pulling triggers than pressing black and white keys. He misses playing sometimes, and besides, nothing would paint him as more confident and fearless in Hannibal’s eyes than touching his belongings without explicit permission. So, Will runs his hand over the harpsichord keys, producing a melodic cascade of sound. 

“I see that you are good with your fingers,” a suave voice says right next to his ear.

Will instantly spins around, ending up face to face with Hannibal, their noses less than half a metre away from each other. _Fuck, stop sneaking up on me like that_ , he wants to hiss, but restrains himself. There is no way he can appear easily startled, because that implies weakness and vulnerability; the two things that Will isn't. He resorts to simply glaring at the man, hoping to god his racing heart can’t be heard in the silence of the room.

“My job requires a steady finger,” Will responds, masking his uneasiness with a dark chuckle. 

As he peels his eyes off Hannibal’s face, Will notices that he is cornered between the harpsichord and the man’s body. Evidently, Hannibal notices it too. He gives Will a smirk and reaches to grip the edge of the instrument with his hands, arms outstretched on each side of Will, trapping him further. 

“You should show me what else those fingers can do,” Hannibal purrs, his voice resonating in the small space between them, making the hairs on the back of Will’s neck stand up. 

He wants to scoff at the horribly cheesy pick-up line, but realising how close Hannibal is makes Will’s breath hitch in his throat. He can feel the heat radiating from Hannibal’s body, can sense the carnal hunger in his eyes, can practically _smell_ the lust in the air. It’s obvious to Will what the man desires, just like it’s obvious that he reciprocates those desires. If the charged atmosphere in the room is crystal-clear to him, it means Hannibal knows it too, reading Will’s body language like an open book. And Will doesn’t like being read.

He places his palms flat against Hannibal’s chest, sliding them down and glances up at the man from underneath his dark eyelashes. An act of seduction, or one that Will could easily make seem as such, curious to see if Hannibal would fall for it. He completes the picture with a slow lick of his lips as he stares into the man’s eyes.

Hannibal’s smirk widens and he leans further into Will’s space, undoubtedly eager for more contact. And that’s when Will tenses his arms and _pushes_ , sending Hannibal stumbling back. 

“Cut the crap, Hannibal. If you want to fuck so badly, just say it,” he sneers, lifting his chin as a challenge. 

Hannibal steadies himself in less than a second, but Will still catches a streak of surprise flash across his face. Good, because Will is hellbent on keeping the man on his toes. 

Hannibal’s jaw tightens and his hands twitch, which makes Will immediately reconsider his small victory, wondering if his audacity is going to get him killed there and then. But then, the man’s tranquil composure is back. 

“I would never express my intentions in such a distasteful and vulgar way,” Hannibal responds, pursing his lips, “I value good manners above everything else.”

“And I value being blunt, unceremonious, and right to the point,” Will cuts in, unable to hold back his cheeky tongue now that he’s gotten started, “You have 10 seconds to get out of that suit, or I’m leaving.” 

Hannibal narrows his eyes and regards Will with a scathing, albeit intrigued expression. Although he is visibly displeased with the way Will is conducting himself, he obeys the direction nonetheless, shrugging off his suit jacket in an elegant motion. His movements are unhurried, the jacket alone taking longer than ten seconds. A compromise, of sorts, Will deduces; the man wants to get laid, but on his own terms. 

“It would be much easier for both of us if you relinquished your unruly attitude, Will,” Hannibal chides as he continues undressing at the same leisurely pace. “I understand the need to maintain facades, even more so in an unfamiliar environment where you feel inferior. Let me assure you that this evening will go more smoothly if you stop trying to be difficult on purpose.”

 _Facades_? _Inferior_? Who does Hannibal think he is to dissect Will like that? And quite accurately so, if he dares to admit it to himself. 

Then Will remembers that Hannibal is a psychiatrist, and it all makes sense. Regardless, though, he doesn't like being analyzed. He despises all kinds of shrinks with their prying eyes and invasive questions, trying to pin labels on him. There are a lot of things wrong with him and he knows it — being a hitman isn’t even the worst of it. Will hates it all with a burning passion, and he’s going to make it adamantly clear. 

“Oh, feeling threatened, doctor?” he drawls with a cocky smile on his face.

There is no verbal response from Hannibal, but he moves with the speed of light, and the next second Will finds himself bent at the waist over the harpsichord, his face pressed against the polished wooden surface. An inaudible ‘ _fuck’_ escapes from his lips as he feels a hand firmly grip the back of his neck and another settle between his shoulder blades, pinning him in place. 

“Although I am courteous, you should not mistake me for being docile.” Hannibal’s voice is low and even. Dangerous. Like the calm before the storm. 

His hold on Will doesn’t budge, and Will winces. Not because it hurts, but more so because it feels humiliating. He would’ve preferred for it to hurt, being manhandled like that, but it didn’t. He wasn’t brutally slammed down, but rather swiftly maneuvered. A display of force, clearly, but more specifically, a display of _controlled_ force. 

Even now, Hannibal’s hands aren’t crushing him, but applying just enough pressure to put Will in his place. As if Will is going to submit that easily. 

“Shouldn’t you undress me first before bending me over?” Will grunts with a wide, teasing grin.

He lets out a snide laugh too, mainly to distract himself from the looming possibilities of what could happen next. Has he been so much of a smug smartass that Hannibal is going to take him right here and now, by simply pulling down his pants and going in dry? The idea doesn’t make Will feel very comfortable, and he can’t help an anxious shiver running through his body. 

Then, the solid grip of Hannibal’s hands is gone, and in his periphery, Will sees the man pull back and resume removing his clothes in an unbothered fashion, as if nothing happened. 

“Bending you over isn’t my intention,” Hannibal elaborates as Will straightens up, eyeing him warily. 

His upper body is now completely bare, the smooth skin attracting Will’s gaze like a magnet. Hannibal’s muscles are toned to perfection, all the way from the curvature of his abdomen to the well-defined and strong biceps. The faint scars littering his torso — unexpected complications during his murderous endeavours, no doubt — and the light hair that tastefully covers his chest complete the picture of the savage and lethal beast that the man is. 

Will’s hands are itching to touch. To bait until the beast bites again. To see if he will ever bite so hard that Will recoils in genuine fear. 

He doesn’t touch, though. Not yet. 

“What is then?” Will asks instead, closing the distance between them.

He tucks his face under Hannibal’s chin, to nuzzle the side of his neck. Except that there’s still no touching, only _teasing_ ; the just-barely-there sensation of Will’s lips ghosting above the hot skin. 

Hannibal growls, a deep rumble in his chest, and Will feels himself being pushed backwards, still chest to chest with the other man, and tipped off balance onto a vintage chaise longue by the wall. His back meets the smooth plush, and it feels like he’s floating atop the soft material, until the feeling is curbed by the heavy weight of Hannibal straddling his hips.

“You’ll see,” he murmurs, quick fingers already halfway through unbuttoning Will’s shirt. 

With his and Hannibal’s efforts combined, the shirt ends up on the floor in mere seconds, followed by Will’s slacks, shoes, socks and underwear. The air in the room is cold, and Will can feel the chill everywhere on his naked body. Well, everywhere except his groin. The warm sensation of pleasant anticipation that has been brewing there all day is now slowly becoming more heated, solidifying his arousal. 

As his brain registers his nude state, Will instinctively wants to curl in on himself and to cover his crotch with his hands. But he fights the urge, instead demonstratively stretching out on the chaise, crossing his arms behind his head and giving Hannibal a sultry look; an unspoken question of _Like what you see?_

And judging by how Hannibal’s pupils dilate, turning his eyes into ravenous black voids, he definitely, _definitely_ , likes what he sees. The man quickly rids himself of the remainder of his clothes, while Will watches with an amused smirk how Hannibal’s always so elegant movements are now slightly more hurried and haphazard. Once he is completely unclothed, still sitting on Will’s thighs, he stills. 

Will cocks an eyebrow. “Show me, then.” 

And that’s when the predator shows his teeth.

He lunges forward, strong arms gripping Will’s shoulders and lifting them off the chaise with the pure force of the motion, as his lips latch onto Will’s neck. Hannibal bites down, hard, and as much as Will knew to expect it, he still yelps at the sting and his hands fly up to wrench Hannibal’s head back by pulling his hair. There is a slight red tinge glistening on Hannibal’s teeth, and a similar shade of crimson flashes across his eyes.

Will groans at the throb on the side of his throat, realizing that the man drew blood — _fucking Dracula_ — and he opens his mouth to spit out something witty and bitter, but Hannibal grinds their hips together, and Will’s mind goes blank. The motion makes their cocks slide against each other, sending sparks up Will’s spine.

“You taste delectable, as I predicted,” Hannibal hums, running his tongue over his teeth, as if savouring the flavour. 

Will rolls his eyes.

“Now, since you’re so eager to use your mouth...” Will lets his eyes finish the sentence, moving them to look down at his erection meaningfully. 

Did he really just encourage a goddamn cannibal to blow him? It’s a rather risqué move, but there’s no stopping now, not when Hannibal continues grinding their hips together, and the sweet friction is clouding Will’s rational judgement. It’s been a while, a long while, since anyone’s given Will head, and he wouldn’t let an opportunity for such wonderful treatment pass by, even if it presented itself in the form of a serial killer with people-eating tendencies. 

“Let me suggest something better,” Hannibal replies, shattering Will’s blissful musings regarding finally getting his cock sucked. 

Will whines low in his throat and watches as Hannibal sits back on his heels, his arm stretching out behind him to fetch something out of an antique drawer next to the chaise. His mind immediately comes up with several options of what it might be, but his train of thought is derailed by Hannibal once again. In the most euphoric way this time, as Will feels a wide hand curl around his shaft.

He exhales shakily and his eyelids fall shut, and Hannibal uses the opportunity to surge forward and brush his lips against Will’s neck. Will reflexively tenses up at the contact, wiser this time around, and denies Hannibal access by pressing his chin to his chest.

Hannibal only smirks at that. 

“Relax, Will,” he purrs, resorting to kiss along Will’s clavicle and down his sternum. 

“Bite me again and I’ll slit your throat,” Will snarls in response. 

His threat has substance to it. Will covertly glances at his pants on the floor, where a small switchblade is stashed into one of the pockets, yet undiscovered by Hannibal. 

“Didn’t you like it?” Hannibal asks casually, paying no mind to Will’s violent threats. 

Will eyes him coolly and shakes his head. It’s not that he doesn’t like it, per se. There’s just something deeply counter-intuitive in exposing his neck, with all its vital arteries and airways, to a vicious killer. Besides, the spot where Hannibal’s mouth left its mark _hurts_. The asshole bit him hard enough to draw blood, and if on top of that it leaves a scar, then fuck the switchblade — Will is going to strangle him with his bare hands. 

“Shame,” Hannibal muses, undisturbed by Will’s malicious stare, “We’ll change that.” 

His hand, still wrapped around Will’s cock, starts moving at a languid and teasing pace. 

“Fuck...” Will mumbles, throwing his head back in a sudden rush of delight.

Immediately, he realises his mistake, as he feels Hannibal’s mouth find its way back to his neck. No biting this time, just slow open-mouthed kisses, all the while continuing to stroke Will with his hand. 

Will sighs and relaxes, letting his hands roam the man’s body. He traces the shape of Hannibal’s back muscles with his fingers, making a point to dig his nails in and drag them across, marking the man in his own way. Hannibal moans at the sensation, his hips bucking against Will’s thigh. The man is most obviously a sadist, but the masochistic streak is a somewhat unexpected discovery, one that Will can use to his advantage in the future, if necessary.

He decides to speed up matters, sliding his palms to Hannibal’s ass and squeezing impatiently. Surely Hannibal had in mind something more than just a naked makeout session and handjobs. Will figures that since he’s not getting head, it must mean Hannibal will soon be settling between Will’s legs and throwing them over his shoulders. It’s been a while since Will had anything inside him, so he hopes that Hannibal is going to be gentler than his teeth had been. 

Predictably, both Hannibal’s hands disappear between their crotches, and Will hears the all-too-familiar sounds of a rubber packet and a lube cap opening. What he fails to predict, though, is to find his own cock being the one that’s covered and slicked up. 

_Oh_. 

Hannibal the quirky cannibal wants Will to top him? After multiple attempts at establishing dominance, such as making Will surrender his gun, taunting him by psychoanalysing his insecurities, and manhandling him onto the harpsichord, the man wants to be the one to take Will’s cock, and not the opposite? Will almost laughs in disbelief, but he certainly isn’t against the idea. Quite the contrary in fact, judging by how his erection twitches enthusiastically at the prospect.

Hannibal coats his fingers in lube, in his usual graceful manner, but just as he is about to reach between his legs, Will swats his hand away with a disapproving grunt. He may be a prick, but he won’t forego bedroom etiquette. Will slicks up his own fingers, and aligns them against Hannibal’s opening. He presses in two, straight away, because yes, he _is_ a prick. If Hannibal is as bold as he acts, he can take it. 

And he takes it, evidently with pleasure, as Will can hear a moan drop from his lips and his hips thrust down to meet Will’s fingers. Will chuckles at such an eager response. Hannibal hums from where he’s busy mouthing at Will’s collarbones. He keeps his teeth away, instead licking, sucking and kissing the skin and leaving behind a trail of red and purple imprints as Will works him open. 

It doesn’t take long, and soon he retracts his three fingers and attempts to sit up. Will figures that a change of positions is necessary if they’re going to do this, and tries to shift, only to immediately be pushed back down by Hannibal’s firm hands against his chest.

“Don’t move,” he instructs, and Will gives him a puzzled look, settling into his original position on his back.

Hannibal adjusts his legs momentarily, and then effortlessly eases himself down on Will’s cock, using his hands on Will’s chest to balance himself. Will gets laid often enough that he isn’t new to the sensation, but even then, it feels maddeningly tight and intoxicating, somewhere between _sofuckinggood_ and _ah-fucking-mazing_ , and he has to bite his tongue to stop a litany of curses from spilling out from between his lips. The friction sends waves of bliss through his entire body, and his fingers clench, desperate to grasp something. Instinctively, Will’s hands find Hannibal’s hips and dig into them with an iron grip. 

Hannibal looks down at Will’s flushed face and smirks, taking him even deeper, and starts slowly rocking his hips up and down. Will automatically thrusts into him, chasing more of the sensation. That’s when Hannibal’s hands slide from his chest to seize his hip bones and press them down into the chaise with unyielding force. 

“I said _don’t move_ ,” he repeats, his tone pure danger. 

Does Hannibal use the same tone to talk to his victims before killing them, and if so, has it gotten any of them hard too?

Will huffs at the absurdity of the thought and stills his hips. Not that he has much choice in the matter now anyway — Hannibal’s grip on them is that strong. Hannibal’s plan for him has unravelled in its full glory, and honestly, Will isn’t complaining in the slightest. Yes, he’s being held down, and not being in control feels unsettling, but he’s fully buried in Hannibal, who is riding him with a pace that feels just right. This could be worse. Much, much worse. Will could be dead, as one would expect to be after walking into a serial killer’s house.

Instead, he’s getting the last ounces of coherent thought fucked out by said killer. 

No, this isn’t bad. Not at all. 

Quite the opposite, actually. As Will inches closer to his peak, his self-restraint plummets rapidly, and he finds himself fighting for more contact, deeper thrusts, further gratification. His hips are still trapped under Hannibal’s unrelenting hold, so he clenches his fingers around Hannibal’s pelvic bones and slams the man’s entire body down harder onto his cock in a surge of selfish, animalistic need. 

Hannibal retaliates, of course, by grabbing Will’s wrists and pinning them down on either side of Will’s head. A punishment for disobeying orders. Will doesn’t mind, though, because he’s getting exactly what he needs; Hannibal’s thrusts quicken and the new rhythm is harder and faster, ascending Will higher and higher into ecstasy. From his position on the chaise, he can just see the head of Hannibal’s cock, glistening with precum, begging to be touched, it _has to be touched_. 

Will smirks, wide and conceited.

“I could be doing so much with my hand right now,” he drawls, locking eyes with Hannibal, “but you seem to want to deny yourself the pleasure.”

Hannibal groans, deep and guttural, admitting that Will has a point. He releases Will’s hands and one immediately starts stroking Hannibal in time with his thrusts. The other hooks around the back of Hannibal’s neck and pulls his upper body down to lie on top of Will, burying the man’s face into his shoulder. Eyes are distracting; it’s easier for Will to stare at the ceiling instead of having to look at Hannibal’s face, especially now when he’s driven to reach the culmination of his arousal as fast as possible. 

Will scratches Hannibal’s back again, the deep press of nails extending from the base of his skull to his lower back, and Hannibal’s entire body contracts in response. He must be close too, Will guesses. It doesn’t take many more up-and-down movements of Will’s tight fist before Hannibal’s breath catches and his release coats Will’s stomach. He shudders and spasms in the process, which is the exact kind of stimulation that sends Will over the edge too. It feels like every muscle in his body coils tight like a spring, causing his legs to bend at the knees, his eyes clench shut, and his hips snap up in earnest as he rides out his orgasm. 

The force of both their climaxes shakes through Hannibal’s arms, one on each side of Will’s head, making them give out, but he catches himself on his elbows, ending up chest to chest with Will, their faces centimetres from each other, panting rapidly in a synchrony of ragged inhales and exhales. 

“Fuck,” Will gasps. The pinnacle of eloquence.

Hannibal lets out a satisfied grunt and lowers himself down to lie on top of Will, his breath tickling the side of Will’s neck. The weight of his body slumped over Will’s is heavy, but he doesn’t blame the man; his thighs must hurt after bouncing on Will’s cock like that. Besides, staying like this, skin against skin, feels warm and comforting. Almost way too comforting for Will’s liking. 

There’s something highly fucked-up about partaking in a naked embrace with a ruthless murderer. There has to be. Will can excuse the sex because it’s done purely for the purposes of self-gratification. But anything more than that feels wrong, not something that Will deserves, not something men like him are allowed to have. This is a one-night stand, not a cuddling session, and Will needs to set the boundaries as such, before his blissed-out brain convinces him that it’s okay to just enjoy the warmth of Hannibal’s body around his, without guilt. 

Will gives a quiet groan, arching his back up in a wordless request for Hannibal to get off him. Hannibal sits back on his knees right away; so gentlemanly and attentive to his guest’s needs, as always. He produces tissues as if out of thin air and begins cleaning their stomachs. Will is astounded; they ended up fucking in the lounge room, for god’s sake, yet Hannibal was somehow still prepared, from lubricant and protection to cleaning up. Maybe it’s his calculating nature that has allowed him to kill and eat people without being caught all this time. 

Will makes a mental note never to underestimate Hannibal Lecter, not when it comes to his dangerousness as a killer, but also not regarding his skills as a bed partner. 

“How did you like the dessert course?” Hannibal asks in a conversational tone, standing up and starting to redress. 

“Quite exquisite,” Will responds without missing a beat, just as casually, as if they’re really discussing food. The next words slip out of his mouth before he has time to stop it: “We should have dinner together again some time.” 

Hannibal’s mouth curves upwards into a sated, pleased smile. 

“Oh, we will.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was the dinner what you expected? What about the dessert? ;)
> 
> I promise that there's an actual plot to this fic hahaha. It'll all start happening from next chapter onwards.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What’s the request?”
> 
> “I simply wish to watch you work,” Hannibal responds.
> 
> Will’s response is instant, like an overly pronounced knee-jerk reaction. 
> 
> “No.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter we get to learn a little more about who Z is. And a couple of other characters from the show make a cameo!

To say that Will is stressed would be an understatement. 

Why couldn’t he have picked a less exhausting and dangerous way to make a living? Like fixing boat motors, for example. If he did a bad job on a motor, the customer would probably contact him, yell at him, and demand their money back. Whereas the clients at Will’s current occupation are different. If he failed an assignment, they wouldn’t yell, wouldn’t make a fuss. They’d simply send their right-hand man to put a bullet in Will’s skull.

Will doesn't exactly want to die, which is precisely why he’s determined to complete the assignment he’s been hired to do, by a new client this time. When he took on the job, persuaded by the above-average paycheck, he didn’t think his target would be so damn difficult to eliminate. He should’ve known that the more money he’s offered, the more challenging the mission would be. 

The lady is an absolute pain in the ass. Mrs. Andromeda Nolan is cautious and always well protected; Will guesses that she probably knows what’s coming for her. She’s an executive at a large company and has a reputation for being a ruthless leader, which means she has more than likely stepped on a lot of people’s toes to attain that power.

Will has been shadowing the woman non-stop for three weeks now, and in that time, not once has she been alone at a quiet location that would be ideal for Will to do his job. Not only that, but even when he stalks her in crowded places in the middle of the day, he can never get a clear shot. Whenever Mrs. Nolan travels anywhere, she goes straight from the building into the car, making sure to always stay protected by layers of walls or glass. She’s got to know that she’s on someone’s hit list. 

And that someone is almost at his wits’ end, wondering how the fuck he’s going to pull off a mission like this. 

Will has started considering the possibility of having to shoot through a window. It isn’t an optimal strategy but it looks like he doesn’t have a choice. The shattering glass could affect the trajectory of the bullet, possibly resulting in a non-fatal wound, or missing the target’s head completely. Will can’t take that risk.

But he’s running out of other options, and more importantly, he’s running out of time. 

And then, as if Will isn’t already about to tear his own hair out, he gets a text from Z, telling him that his regular employer has another assignment for him. 

Will knows better than to refuse the job, especially from the man who he has already established a pleasant working relationship with. Ideally, he wouldn’t try to juggle two contract kill missions simultaneously, but he can manage. He _has_ to. 

So, at 11am on a Wednesday morning, Will sits down on a bench at the predetermined location. Z is already sitting at the other end, casually smoking a cigarette. Will greets him with a stiff nod, and the man does the same. Z’s eyes quickly scan their surroundings for nosy passersby, and once he’s satisfied that no one is watching them, he pulls a book out of his bag, sliding it across the bench to Will. 

Will takes it and huffs at the title, _Alice in Wonderland_. With his leather jacket, dark coarse-looking facial hair extending down to his neck, and the overall gruff appearance, Z doesn’t look like someone that would carry a children’s book around. Will chuckles internally and flips through the pages, eventually finding the information about his next target stuck to one of them.

His eyes dart over the paragraphs of text, picking out the most important details that allow him to gauge the nature of the job; name of the target, occupation, location, and photograph. It looks like nothing out of the ordinary. 

Will turns to Z and gives him another small nod; assignment accepted. 

“My advance?” Will says, holding his hand out expectantly. 

Z’s eyes swiftly check their surroundings once more before he fetches a plain envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket, handing it to Will. 

Will counts the notes placed inside it. He always demands 50% of his paycheck upfront, to seal the deal. He isn’t naive enough to commit to _killing someone_ without clear proof that his client can and will reimburse him for his efforts. 

Satisfied with the amount of money in the envelope, Will sets out to get on his feet and leave, but stops when Z speaks.

“One more thing,” the man drawls in his typical dispassionate voice, blowing out a thick cloud of cigarette smoke. 

Will raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?” 

“The boss wants it done by the 23rd.” 

“Of April?” Will asks. There’s nothing worse than failing an assignment of this nature simply because you didn’t clarify the month of the deadline. 

“Duh,” Z replies with a shit-eating smirk, looking at Will like he’s a degenerate.

Will wants to punch the man for his condescending remark, but that wouldn’t be wise. He gives Z a scalding look and focuses on performing the mental math instead. Today is the 10th of April, which means he has just under two weeks to complete the proposed task. Will’s usual turnaround is one month, and he’s previously made that very clear to his employer. The corporate nightmare under the name Mrs. Nolan is already driving him insane, and he has less than a week left to kill her. There is absolutely no way he can accomplish both these assignments within the proposed time frame. 

But there is also absolutely no way he can refuse the job without losing the valuable relationship with this employer either. 

“No deal. If he wants to cut my work time in half, he’s gotta pay me double,” Will states, his stone-cold expression unwavering. 

Z flicks the ashes off his cigarette, some of them landing on Will’s shoes. “150 percent of your usual rate, no more.” 

“I said double,” Will insists, his mouth twisting into a tight line.

“The boss has set his price. Take it or leave it,” Z counters with a conceited shrug. 

Will isn’t having any of it. All the built-up stress and tension from his so far unsuccessful attempts to assassinate the CEO lady erupts in a wave of poorly restrained anger at the man’s provocation. 

“How about you take your smug ass back to your boss and tell him my services are non-fucking-negotiable? It’s either double rate, or he can go do this shit himself.” 

Will is up on his feet now, leaning over Z so they’re face to face, his eyes shooting daggers at the man. Z looks infuriatingly unbothered by all of it. 

“150% is final,” he says and blows a cloud of smoke right into Will’s eyes. 

“Did I fucking stutter, _Brian_?” Will retaliates, resorting to using the one last weapon he knows is going to wipe that cocky look off the man’s face. 

As expected, Z’s eyes widen at the mention of his real name. Will smiles triumphantly. It always pays off to do his research, not only on his targets but also on his employers and their underlings. 

“Fine, I’ll ask him,” the man grits out. 

He pulls out his phone and taps a few messages on it. Will waits impatiently, still glaring at Z and bouncing his leg in a bundle of pent-up energy. 

“Alright, double rate,” Z concedes finally, reluctance and disagreement with his boss’s decision evident in his voice. 

Will gives him a satisfied smirk. “Tell him it’s always a pleasure to do business with him.”

Before Z responds, Will turns on his heels and walks off without looking back. 

***

Hannibal doesn’t bother wearing underwear anymore. 

They both know what happens every time they see each other. Will arrives at Hannibal’s house in time for dinner, they eat a decadent meal, have mind-blowing sex, and Will goes home. It’s very efficient and very simple. So, the lack of undergarments just means less layers for Will to peel off the man’s irresistible body. 

It’s an all-round wonderful arrangement. Will really can’t complain. What they have is the pure definition of a “no strings attached” relationship; casual fucking without the emotional obligations. All the benefits and zero downsides. The best of both worlds. Or, that’s what it should feel like. 

Sometimes, after they’ve redressed, Hannibal offers him a drink by the fireplace, and they talk about things. Nothing too personal, just the kind of good-natured chat one would have with a friendly colleague. Can he describe Hannibal as a colleague? Will isn’t sure. 

What he is sure of is that he likes what he has with Hannibal. More than he wants to admit. Especially the part where they talk. Getting laid regularly is always great, but there’s something special in those moments where they lounge on soft armchairs with drinks in hand and have deep conversations about existentialism, the fallibility of human morality, and the like. Strangely, Will finds Hannibal easier to talk to than anyone he’s ever met. It must be because he is a psychiatrist; clearly a very good one, since he has his own clinic. Will feels like he could easily spend hours just talking to Hannibal, through the night and into the sunrise. But Hannibal never offers for him to stay the night. And Will never asks. 

He tries not to let it bother him. Staying the night implies commitment and expectations, and he understands why Hannibal wouldn’t want that. Having a real and proper relationship isn’t really possible for people like them, whose hands are constantly stained with others’ blood.

Will hates himself for falling prey to this thought, wanting to exorcise it out of his body as if it’s a sinister demon, and he’ll be damned for starting to think about it in the first place, but god, _is it so wrong to just want one simple kiss_?

They fuck. A lot. With animalistic fervour and unrestrained passion. In different positions and different rooms. But not once has Hannibal kissed him on the lips. And it’s not because the man is shy with his mouth. He has absolutely no trouble marking Will up with his teeth, to the point where Will’s neck, chest and shoulders have turned into a permanent exhibition of bruises and bite marks in various stages of bloom. They’ve engaged in so many unholy acts together, but it seems that letting their lips meet in a simple and innocent kiss is the real forbidden sin; an unwritten rule they can’t breach. 

It’s just kissing, not a fucking marriage proposal. Why is it such a big deal? Will tells himself that it _isn’t._ He should be grateful for the arrangement he has with Hannibal and not hope for more. And Will most definitely should never bring it up with Hannibal, in fear of ruining everything. Besides, judging by the way Hannibal is acting, he doesn’t want an actual relationship. If the sex is good, who cares about the kissing? So, Will stays quiet. 

“You seem on edge today.” Hannibal’s inquisitive voice pulls Will out of his musings. 

He’s already decided he’s not going to talk to Hannibal about anything relating to their relationship, or the formal lack thereof. And he can’t talk about his work being stressful either. No way. It’s too dangerous, too risky for Will to even hint that he’s currently working on an assignment. What if Hannibal knows either of his targets and puts two and two together? No, Will has to be careful.

“My dog’s sick. Winston. Been to the vet 3 times in the past couple of weeks,” he lies smoothly. 

Hannibal tilts his head to the side and regards Will with an unreadable expression on his face. Will doesn’t particularly care if the man can tell his excuse is fake. Keeping his work classified isn’t a personal offense, but rather professional courtesy. 

“I wish dear Winston an expeditious recovery,” Hannibal says, always so tactful. “I have a proposition for you, but seeing that you already have your hands full with your dog, it can wait.” 

Will quirks an eyebrow and takes a sip of his cognac, the top-quality liquor creating a warm and soothing sensation in his throat and stomach. “Now you’ve got me curious.” 

A proposition from a serial killer usually ends badly. But if said serial killer is someone you sleep with regularly, maybe it entails something good. Will decides to find out. 

Hannibal gives him a pleased smile and refills his glass. “I’d like to know how one would go about requesting your services.” 

“My _services_?” Will repeats, turning to face the other man head-on. This is not what he expected. “I’m fairly sure you’re perfectly able to handle matters of that nature yourself.” 

Will remembers watching Hannibal slit that man’s throat at the dock. His hand carrying the blade moved with the elegance of a dancer but with the precision of a surgeon, making it evident that Hannibal is an experienced killer. 

“I am,” Hannibal agrees calmly, “but I have my reasons for wanting to employ you, specifically.” 

“I’ve heard it isn’t wise to mix business with pleasure,” Will deflects with a light chuckle. 

This isn’t happening. No way. He is already up to his neck in difficult assignments and looming deadlines.

“Quite the contrary,” Hannibal counters with his typical polite smile, “With the highly specialised occupation that you have, it presents a rather unique opportunity.” 

Will sighs and rubs the back of his neck, taking a moment to compose his thoughts before speaking.

“I appreciate that you want to hire me, but I’m really booked up at the moment.” 

“As I said before, this isn’t urgent,” Hannibal continues, infuriatingly courteous and persistent. “It can wait until your schedule is less occupied by matters such as... _your dog_.” 

Will resists the urge to roll his eyes — the dog excuse was bound to fail eventually. What’s clear is that Hannibal isn’t backing down on his request, and Will feels an unpleasant feeling settle into the bottom of his stomach.

Hannibal reaches into the drawer next to his seat and takes out a dark, crimson-coloured leather file. It reminds Will of the menus at luxurious restaurants. He realises with a tinge of shock and amusement that to Hannibal, that’s exactly what the contents of the file are — food.

Will sighs again and opens the file.

Mason Verger, the head of the Verger meat packing business, one of the biggest meat suppliers in the country. Will lets himself briefly wonder why Hannibal is targeting this man. Does Hannibal deem Mr. Verger’s taste in meat offensive since he prefers pork products over human? 

Will really, really doesn’t want to get involved in anyone’s meat debates. He focuses on examining the rest of the contents of the file, noting down the names and faces of Mr. Verger’s main henchmen, including his right-hand man, Cordell. Once he has finished, he closes the folder and meets Hannibal’s eyes. 

“Am I correct in assuming you accept my proposition?” Hannibal queries. 

The question is pointless, really. There is no way Will can refuse the task now. He’s seen the file, which makes him automatically complicit. 

“As long as you’re happy with it taking longer than my usual time frame,” he says with a long, resigned exhale. 

“The time frame isn’t my concern at all.”

Will raises an eyebrow. “What is, then?” 

“I would like to make a special request,” Hannibal reveals, finishing his drink. “It’s nothing grotesque or unreasonable, don’t worry. And the additional reimbursement for catering to my personal wishes will be sizable, of course.”

Will instinctively wants to object and say that he doesn’t do special requests. But that would be a lie, he and Hannibal both know it. He delivers samples of flesh and other body parts to his regular employer, which is something Hannibal is very well aware of, since he provided the latest one out of his own collection of frozen human organs. 

“What’s the request?” Will asks warily. The sooner this whole ordeal is over, the better. 

“I simply wish to watch you work.” 

Will’s response is instant, like an overly pronounced knee-jerk reaction. 

“No.”

He forces himself to meet Hannibal’s eyes. The man’s stare is hot and piercing, and it tastes like challenge.

“I work alone,” Will adds, overwhelmed by the sudden urge to explain himself. 

He hopes with every fibre of his body that this is the end of the conversation. But of course, Hannibal is a pain in the ass that doesn’t give up so easily. 

“Please indulge me, Will.” The man’s voice is sweet and coaxing, much like the top-shelf liquor he served Will. “You can set the price to what you deem appropriate.”

Will lets out an incredulous huff. This isn’t about the money. 

“What would you get out of watching me kill someone?” he questions cautiously. With every passing second he grows more and more certain he doesn’t actually want to hear the answer to that.

“The delight of witnessing you in your most fierce glory,” Hannibal replies in his characteristic unperturbed fashion. “I would find this experience rather… invigorating.” 

If Will wasn’t cursed with the ability to read people like an open book, and if he hadn’t already catalogued all of Hannibal’s microexpressions and how they convey carnal desire for Will’s body, he would’ve missed it. He would’ve been oblivious to the subtle widening of Hannibal’s pupils and the way his tongue darts over his teeth, anticipating the taste of sweat and lust. 

“Is this what you meant by the unique opportunity to mix business with pleasure?” Will asks in disbelief. He has to be dreaming. 

Hannibal’s reply is maddeningly casual, almost coy. “Perhaps.” 

The unpleasant feeling in Will’s stomach now spreads into the rest of his body, filling his cells with bubbling nausea. 

“You’re— You want to watch me kill because it _turns you on_?” 

“I did not say that,” Hannibal counters as his eyebrows rise in amusement.

Will knows it’s an act, it has to be. A sickening and infuriating act. 

“But you’re not fucking denying it either,” he spits out. 

Hannibal keeps looking at him, a curious smile ghosting over his features. Will glares back, chest heaving in an inexplicable wave of… Disgust? Anger? Shock? He isn’t sure what exactly, but the feeling is revolting, twisting his guts inside out. 

“Are you rejecting my proposition?” Hannibal queries at last. 

“Damn right I am!” Will explodes, his raised voice echoing off the high ceiling in Hannibal’s study. “I’m not a fucking rent boy you can pay to cater to your sick fetishes.” 

“Will, I’m afraid you have misinterpreted —” 

“ _Don’t,_ ” Will interrupts with so much venom in his tone that Hannibal falls silent.

The growing nausea inside him turns into something that feels much, much worse. It feels like the kind of devastating hurt one experiences when something seemingly perfect turns out to be a stab in the back. Because everything in Will’s life that seems too good to be true always is. 

“You used me,” he says, and somehow his voice doesn’t crack, even though everything inside him already feels broken.

Hannibal opens his mouth to protest, but Will doesn’t give him a chance, grabbing his coat and storming out. 

“Don’t fucking call me ever again, asshole.” 

***

For the next few days, Will doesn’t think about the sour events that happened at Hannibal’s house. If he let his thoughts wander to that godforsaken evening, he’d find himself back in Hannibal’s living room, his hands wrapped around the man’s throat. 

No, Will has more urgent matters to address, more urgent people to kill. It’s almost midnight when he gets back home after another unfruitful attempt to assassinate Mrs. Nolan as she ventured out to dine at some extravagant restaurant. He has resigned to having to shoot through the glass, hoping to finally pull the trigger tonight. But again, Mrs. Impossible-To-Kill positioned herself far from all the windows, and Will didn’t get a chance to point his red dot of doom at her head. 

He sighs and climbs out of his car, determined to try again tomorrow. He has only three days left before the date he promised to have the job done by, and he can hear the clock ticking, a steady and menacing rhythm inside his head. As such, Will really doesn’t have the time to think about Hannibal and how everything they had is now ruined. It was just sex. No feelings attached. Nothing to feel mopey about. 

Will locks his car, anticipating the soothing burn of the whiskey he’s going to pour himself as soon as he steps into his house, when he catches a flash of movement in the side mirror of the vehicle.

He spins on his heels and comes face to face with a tall and bulky figure, covered in black clothing from head to toe, except for the strip of skin where his eyes are. Will’s breath catches in his throat as the man’s fist collides with his nose, causing his head to snap back and smash into the hard metal of the car exterior.

Will instinctively ducks down, away from the next punch. It lands onto the car window, shattering it with a deafening clink. The stranger loses his balance as his arm continues its trajectory past the glass and hits the glovebox, making the CD cases inside it spill out. 

Will doesn’t look back and bolts towards the safety of his house. However, his escape is cut short by the sound of a gun cocking, and instead of continuing to run for the front door, he plunges himself sharply to the left, around the side of the car, away from the imminent bullet. 

The gunshot makes the air vibrate, and Will’s racing heart follows in its wake, beating just as loud. He has no time to see if the bullet hit him; the only thing that matters is his own handgun that he’s fumbling to grasp, like his life depends on it.

Because it does. 

Will doesn’t know who this mysterious attacker is or why he was lying in wait at Will’s property. He only knows one thing: the man is here to kill him. But Will sure as hell isn’t going down without a fight. 

There is a brief second of silence, as they crouch on the opposite sides of the car, each waiting for the other to strike first. Will wipes his bloodied face with his sleeve and pushes his glasses, now stained with red splotches, onto his forehead as he assesses the situation. His close combat skills aren’t exactly world-class, so a head-on attack isn’t his best bet. The odds are racked heavily in the assailant’s favour, being larger and definitely physically stronger than Will, so it’s only a matter of time before he starts to advance again. Will has to improvise. 

The remote key to his car is still in his hand, the one that isn’t now firmly clutching his gun. He jams the button, activating the security alarm of the vehicle. The cacophony of flashing lights and blaring sounds momentarily stuns the assailant, while Will drops down, face to the ground, so he can see the other side through the gap between the car and the road. 

He may not be the most capable fighter, but he can pinpoint the moment when he has a clear shot. And when he has a clear shot, he never fails to hit the target. Will is dizzy from the blood flooding his mouth but he stretches out his arm and pulls the trigger.

The bullet lodges itself into the attacker’s ankle, possibly — _hopefully_ — rupturing his Achilles tendon. The man growls and collapses onto the ground. Will shoots him again, this time in the ribcage. As he slowly walks around the car, he sees the steadily-growing puddle of blood before laying eyes on the dark figure he managed to incapacitate.

The assailant grunts in agony and coughs up a splatter of blood. His hand that’s holding a gun rises in his last attempt at self-defense, but Will is faster. It’s a clean shot to the head this time. The back of the man’s skull hits the ground almost as soon as Will fires the bullet. 

Will stares. 

He stares until his senses come back to him. Until his ears stop ringing and he stops hyperventilating. Until the man is no longer breathing and Will is standing there, still clueless as to who ordered a hit on him and why, meaning he’s got someone’s blood on his hands and zero answers. 

He’s killed before of course, many times, but never like this. Never in a mess of sweat and blood, looking into his victim’s eyes while pulling the trigger. Never while fighting for his own life. 

He takes a moment, or two, or _ten_ , to push the panic away and force his brain to think rationally. Thankfully, the closest neighbours are far enough away where the noise wouldn’t have alerted them. Will pinches his eyes shut and rubs his temples. He has a dead body to deal with now. 

Yes, he’s a killer by profession, but his job doesn’t involve disposing of the corpses he leaves behind. All he does is pull the trigger; the consequences of his deadly actions aren’t his concern. Although every cell of Will’s body fights against it, he wills himself to focus on the task at hand and takes a few shaky steps towards the man’s cooling body. Will doesn’t need to see his whole face to recognise him. A little strip of skin illuminated by the moonlight is enough. 

Cordell. The man Will saw in Mason Verger’s file. 

His head starts spinning. Why does Verger want him dead? He’s never even met the man. As much as it pains Will to acknowledge it, the answer is more than obvious. There is only one missing link in the chain that connects Will to the king of the meat packing dynasty. 

If he stubbornly keeps his eyes screwed shut long enough, all of this should eventually vanish like a gruesome nightmare in the wake of sunrise. _It has to._

When Will hears poised and leisurely footsteps approach him, he doesn’t bother looking up. He doesn’t need to use his eyes to know exactly who is in front of him. 

“Good evening, Will,” the familiar voice invades his ears, “You were just as glorious as I imagined.”

Will opens his eyes, and sure enough, there he is. The devil himself, materialising out of the shadows, rising from the pits of hell. He’s wearing a long black coat, its shiny metal buttons glimmering in the moonlight just as brightly as the silver strands in his hair. It’s probably due to the head injury he suffered due to Cordell’s punch, but Will could swear that Hannibal’s eyes are glowing red and there are devil horns spurting out of his head. 

“You… You sent him after me,” Will accuses bitterly, “because you wanted to watch me…”

He’s exhausted and his head is throbbing, so the words come out way weaker and less furious than he hoped for. Will adds more bite to them by spitting on the ground in front of Hannibal. The lump of saliva mixed with blood from his busted nose lands dangerously close to the man’s polished shoes. He should’ve spat harder. 

“Was that really so surprising, after you declined my request?” Hannibal queries after a brief glance to gauge the fate of his boots. His tone is pure childlike innocence, as if he did nothing wrong. 

As if he didn’t just deliberately try to get Will killed for his own amusement. 

Will hand snaps up to point the barrel of his gun to Hannibal’s head. His whole arm shakes, and he’d most likely miss if he fired, but he doesn’t care. All he wants is for Hannibal and this entire mess to disappear and pretend it never happened. He’s angry, appalled, and on the brink of collapsing. 

“Get. The fuck. Off. My property!” Will growls. 

Hannibal doesn’t flinch under the threat. He just smiles. A small, but self-satisfied smirk.

“As you wish. I won’t intrude on your evening any longer than necessary.” 

Of course the bastard is smiling. He got exactly what he wanted — to watch Will take a life. And although Will did everything to refuse participating in this wicked game, he didn’t get a choice in the matter in the end. His trigger finger twitches, itching to squeeze it so goddamn badly, as he steps forward and stops right in front of Hannibal. Close enough to touch.

“ _Now_ ,” he commands, “Or I’ll empty this gun right into your fucking face.” 

Hannibal raises an eyebrow, and the corner of his mouth quirks in distaste, as if he disapproves of Will’s actions, knowing he won’t pull the trigger. 

And as much as Will wants to, he knows that he won’t, too. Shooting people is his job, the everyday grind, simply business. But this, this is _personal_. Will wants to feel it; the satisfaction deep in his bones, fresh blood on his bare hands, an impact far more intimate than the recoil of his gun. 

He draws his fist back and hits Hannibal right in the face. It lands awfully near the cavity of the skull where his left eye is situated, accompanied by a grisly sound.

Will immediately expects retaliation, either in the form of a punch, or having his throat cut the same way he saw Hannibal kill Will’s target all those weeks ago. But Hannibal doesn’t fight back. He simply grunts in pain and brings his hand to his face to check for fractures.

Will watches, frozen in place, until the man finally meets his eyes and speaks.

“Goodnight, Will,” is all he says. His voice is surprisingly calm and composed, but Will can see the pronounced throb of the injured muscle underneath his eyebrow. 

Will turns and briskly heads towards his house, before Hannibal imminently changes his mind and murders him in cold blood there and then. As he approaches his front door, he fully expects to be tackled to the ground, but nothing comes. He shoots a quick glance in Hannibal’s direction before unlocking the door and disappearing safely inside. The man is still standing in the spot where Will left him, appearing contemplative and almost regretful. That is, if the abominable creature under the name Hannibal Lecter was capable of regret. 

Whiskey has never sounded more enticing than it does now. Will doesn’t even bother grabbing a glass, setting his sights of downing all of it straight from the bottle instead. The situation warrants it. He gets about halfway through the bottle before his head feels sufficiently clear. The alcohol washes down the blood from his tongue and calms the tremor in his hands. Hannibal is probably gone by now. Surely he has enough common sense left in his stupid aristocrat brain to get his sorry ass off Will’s property before Will decides to lay more punches in his liquor-fuelled rage. 

And then there’s the second problem; there’s still a body lying in his front yard. 

Will takes the whiskey with him as he steps back outside, ready to face the dead and unmoving eyes of the man he killed. He blinks. Once, twice. Rubs his eyes with his hand. Looks again, dumbfounded. 

Cordell’s lifeless form is nowhere to be seen. 

Will’s last shot was fatal, he knows it for a fact. There is no way Cordell could’ve survived and escaped. That leaves only one possibility. Hannibal the opportunistic cannibal must have taken the body to replenish his human meat freezer with. 

Will can’t believe his eyes; Hannibal did something helpful, for once.

He stumbles back inside and plants himself face first into bed. No thoughts, no feelings, just sleep, he tells himself. The body is gone, which means Will can pretend everything that happened tonight was just one elaborate and torturous nightmare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was one of the most action packed chapters i've written in a long time. Any ideas for what's going to happen next?


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both subjects of Will’s new plan are fans of classical music, and therefore frequent the same performances. All Will needs to do is set Hannibal and Mrs. Nolan on a collision course, and then simply sit back and watch the catastrophe unfold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In short, Will orchestrates his revenge on Hannibal, and tensions rise. 
> 
> For anyone that likes visuals, [this](https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/1090/7042/products/product-image-416459939.jpg?v=1569007754) is the suit I envision Hannibal wearing to the opera. And [this](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/Et_BiR2UcAQtTIV?format=jpg&name=900x900) is Will's outfit.

Will can’t sleep. He tosses and turns past 2 a.m. Followed by 3 a.m, then 4 a.m. Sleep comes eventually, coaxing his brain deep into the dream land. He lets it, because reality is shaping up to be far worse than any nightmare he could possibly experience. 

Cordell’s body is back in Will’s front yard, ominously thrashing around like a maimed ghost. Will ignores it in favour of looking Hannibal in the eye and menacingly invading his personal space by stepping closer and closer. There is amusement and elation in Hannibal’s gaze, which is a stark opposite to the hostile intent in Will’s.

Will snarls, presses the barrel of the gun right between Hannibal’s eyes, and fires. The man’s entire form convulses, and Will feels the profound impact in his own body too. More specifically, and yet inexplicably, in his groin. 

Will looks down, confused, just to find — to his horror or delight, he isn't quite sure — his cock buried deep between Hannibal’s ass cheeks, right down to the base. The man’s thighs straddling Will’s crotch tremble violently as rivers of red blood flow down his torso, coating them both. Will draws in a shocked breath as his vision starts spinning.

When he exhales he realises he’s safely in his own bed. He’s still clutching at what he thought was Hannibal’s body, but it turns out to be his pillow. Once his rapid breathing has evened out, he turns to his side, seeking a more comfortable position, and tries to sleep again. With no success, as to be expected; his body is too awake. Too _aroused_. 

“Fuck,” Will mumbles as he slides a hand into his boxers. 

No other utterance would be more perfect for the situation he’s in. Fuck Hannibal. Fuck his twisted games of kill or be killed. Fuck whatever demon possessed Will’s body and decided his boner won’t subside unless he gets off to the images of blood, sex and violence that his brain is feeding him. 

_Fuck Hannibal._

Clearly, some part of Will, the one responsible for his obscure wet dream, wishes he was doing exactly that. 

Will wants to scream. He hates Hannibal, despises the man with all his heart. Hannibal used him for sex, and that’s not even the worst part. He used Will to fulfil his _murder fantasies._ Will feels hollowed out and lied to, vindictive rage slowly filling the empty space Hannibal’s betrayal left in him.

Will wants him dead. Just like Cordell, sprawled on the cold ground, unseeing eyes staring into nothingness. 

His hand goes numb from gripping his cock for so long, the release still frustratingly far out of reach. No wonder, since he’s been thinking about murder. Unlike certain individuals, violence and death aren’t at the top of the list of things Will finds arousing. He flops onto his stomach with a groan, hoping that grinding his hips against the mattress will give him the necessary friction to bring himself over the edge. 

Reluctantly, his mind goes back to thinking about Hannibal, about all those times they slept together. Will remembers himself, laid on his back on top of that harpsichord in Hannibal’s lounge room, getting the last ounces of his coherent thoughts pounded out by the man. In this mind space, surrounded by the vivid memories of their heated acts, it doesn’t take Will long to finish. His release stains the sheets, but he simply rolls over to the clean side. Thank fuck for having a double bed.

Will tries not to think about the fact that he just jerked off to the man that sent someone to kill him for pure entertainment. Hate-sex is totally a thing, right? It’s perfectly sensible to want to fuck the person that he also wants to kill.

 _Right_? 

***

It’s been several days, and Will is still furious. Or rather, hellbent on revenge. He considers ambushing Hannibal in his psychiatry clinic where he’d least expect it. He wants to surprise Hannibal, to shock him, and not in a nice way. 

Instead, Hannibal manages to surprise Will. 

A bouquet of crimson-red roses is waiting at Will’s front porch when he gets home one afternoon. The delicate and fragrant flowers are accompanied by a card with oblique and ornate handwriting. Will’s eyes dart across the pristine paper, catching glimpses of the phrases “my actions may have been impulsive” and “dinner on Monday at 7 o’clock?” 

Will cuts up the roses and rips the letter into shreds. He shoves everything into an envelope without a return address and mails it back to Hannibal. This way, there is absolutely no chance of his response to the dinner invitation being misinterpreted. 

He’ll focus on getting properly back at Hannibal once he’s dealt with his current job assignments. Specifically Mrs. Nolan, the corporate shark that has so far managed to evade Will’s assassination attempts. As much as he is itching to get revenge on Hannibal for his twisted games as soon as possible, Will’s targets must come first because his deadlines are approaching fast. 

Unless he can take care of both his problems, concurrently. Two birds with one stone. 

Hannibal sent Cordell after Will, most likely by hinting to Mason Verger that he is on Will’s hit list. Now, Will is going to give Hannibal a taste of his own medicine. He’s going to find a way to somehow pit Mrs. Nolan’s henchmen against Hannibal, hoping that when Hannibal kills them, he takes down the woman herself in the process too. Either that, or Will can use the diversion to do the deed himself. 

Such a scheme would serve Hannibal right. 

Due to having stalked Mrs. Nolan for almost a month, Will already knows everything about the woman’s daily schedule, hobbies, and interests. He knows the same things about Hannibal, too. So, finding an intersection point where their paths could cross isn’t all that difficult. 

The opera. Both subjects of Will’s new plan are fans of classical music, and therefore frequent the same performances. All Will needs to do is set Hannibal and Mrs. Nolan on a collision course, and then simply sit back and watch the catastrophe unfold. 

***

Mozart’s pieces always pull the most prestigious crowd, and “ _The Marriage of Figaro_ ” is no exception. In order to blend in with the aristocratic opera fans, Will had to buy a new suit jacket and an iron to smooth out the wrinkles in his best dress shirt. The jacket is totally a different shade of black than his suit pants, but it’s not obvious enough to make him look out of place. Nobody’s going to think he looks guilty, as long as he doesn’t act that way.

The performance hall is equipped with metal detectors upon entry, as well as X-ray machines that everyone’s belongings go through. There is absolutely no chance of sneaking in any kind of firearm or blade. Will did his research, like he always does, so he made sure not to bring a weapon of that kind. 

His bright yellow Epipen stands out amidst all the handbags, watches, keys, phones and wallets that feed into the X-ray machine, and elicits a curious glance from one of the guards. 

“I’m allergic to dairy,” Will explains as he collects all his belongings at the other end of the machine. 

Once done, he heads for the stairs leading to the highest section of seats, as printed on his ticket. He purchased it with cash and under a fake name of course, to avoid producing any evidence of him being here tonight. Will stations himself at the top of the magnificent marble staircase, where he can see all the opera guests mingling in the foyer before the performance starts. Although he doesn’t have his sniper rifle, something about the elevated position and being able to watch people from afar gives him a feeling of familiarity and comfort.

He spots Mrs. Nolan immediately at the bar, accompanied by her inconspicuous but still very intimidating bodyguard. Will wonders if the guy feels naked without a gun, just like he does. Not that the guard would need one, judging by the sheer mass of muscle on him. Fortunately, if all goes to plan, Will won’t have to even come face to face with the man. 

Hannibal arrives a few moments later, and Will’s entire body tightens up with hatred, from core muscles to his fingertips. Hannibal looks dazzling in his purple patterned suit and navy-blue tie; the textbook definition of class and elegance. It’s a nice outfit, but it’s going to look even nicer once Will paints it red with blood. 

He watches Hannibal briefly greet several acquaintances on his way to deposit his overcoat at the cloakroom. As he comes closer to where Will is lurking, Will can see no signs of damage that his fist caused to Hannibal’s face. He’s pretty certain that his punch had bruising force behind it, so the man must’ve had to use makeup to be able to conceal it so well. In contrast, Will’s own busted nose, courtesy of Cordell, is painfully obvious. The notion enrages Will further; some part of him wished Hannibal would wear his black eye openly and have to endure constant questions about its origins, just like Will has to. 

Hopefully, before the end of the performance tonight, Hannibal will have many more bruises to grace his smug face, as well as the rest of his body. 

Personally, Will doesn’t see the appeal in the opera. Had the circumstances been different, he would’ve gotten bored to death and most likely fallen asleep. But today, his plan is making him restless. As the first act goes on, he spends his time counting the rows and seats to pinpoint the exact location of Hannibal’s seat, and then recounting them again and again to make sure he doesn’t get it wrong. 

It’s not too late to give up his plan and simply enjoy the night. Will could do that, but he would imminently fail his assignment regarding Mrs. Nolan, and have to suffer the consequences of disappointing the big boss. It would be interesting to see who gets to Will first: this boss or Mason Verger, who by now must know that Will was behind Cordell’s grisly fate. Will doesn’t want to die by either party’s hand, but if it’s inevitable, he should at least try to take Hannibal down with him. It can be his dying wish. Besides, the man deserves it. 

With this newfound determination, Will heads straight to the bar once intermission starts. Mrs. Nolan will be there soon without a doubt, to pump more liquor into her body. Will doesn’t need to be a professional stalker-assassin to know the lady is a seasoned alcoholic. 

He lingers a few metres away from the bar, tapping on his phone, pretending to be preoccupied by an incoming text message. Once the target with her hired muscle has come up to order a drink, Will casually saunters over to stand beside her. He asks the bartender for a whiskey on the rocks and lets his eyes meet Mrs. Nolan’s, as if by accident. 

“Wonderful performance so far, isn’t it?” he says with a polite smile. 

She smiles back, friendly and charming, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She has a cold heart, Will deduces immediately; a wolf in sheep’s clothing. This, _exactly this_ , is why he avoids coming into direct contact with his targets. Will sees too much, right through their eyes into their souls, all their thoughts and feelings on display like an open book. And god forbid he, a professional hitman, develops any sympathy or emotional attachment to his future victim. That would be a career suicide. 

“Indeed. I never miss a performance of Mozart’s,” the lady replies, brushing a bleach-blonde strand of hair away from her face. 

Will is acutely aware of the burning stare of Mrs. Nolan’s goon on his back, as the guy watches him intently from a few steps away. He draws in a subtle breath, then leans forward, as if to brush dust off his knee, while bringing his lips close to the woman’s ear. 

“Well, the man in seat G34 is here to make sure you won’t get to see the ending of this one,” he whispers. 

He’s timed it well. As soon as the words leave his mouth, the bartender brings his drink. In one fluid motion, Will picks up the glass and exits the bar, disappearing into the crowd.

***

The increasing blood alcohol concentration in his system is supposed to have a reciprocal effect on his anxiety. But it doesn’t. Although Will hasn’t done anything incriminating per se, _yet_ , he has just indirectly arranged someone’s death. Or a serious injury, if they’re lucky. He doesn’t know who that someone is going to end up being, which is what’s causing his body to shiver and sweat. 

Hannibal is an experienced killer, surely he can take on one unarmed bodyguard. Then again, the guard has the element of surprise against Hannibal. With a nauseating twist in his stomach, Will wonders which of his pristine suits Hannibal would be dressed in at his funeral, if he were to die tonight. 

During the second intermission, Will nurses his second whiskey for the night and lurks amidst the crowd, restlessly waiting for Mrs. Nolan and her protector to make a move. Will watches Hannibal too, noticing when the man goes to the restroom. Like clockwork, the guard follows Hannibal, and before entering the bathroom, he attaches a handwritten “out of order” sign to the door.

Will raises an eyebrow in amusement. Picking the only place in this building with no security cameras, and directing other opera guests to go empty their bladders elsewhere? Very clever, mister Hired Muscle. If Will had to plan a spontaneous attack like this, he’d do it in the bathroom too.

He downs his drink and immediately wishes he had another. The murder weapon feels hot in his pocket, burning his skin. He doesn’t feel bad about arranging for Hannibal to have his ass kicked — or possibly killed. Will really doesn’t give a fuck. It’s murdering the lady that makes his throat feel dry. Will has no issues pulling triggers since it’s detached and impersonal; he never gets any blood on his hands, at least not literally speaking. This is different, he’d have to get close to her, possibly even see the look in her eyes as he does it. 

He doesn’t exactly know what kind of cue he’s waiting for, but he trusts his professional instinct to tell him when to strike. The cue comes soon enough, in the form of Mrs. Nolan’s bodyguard scrambling out the restroom, covered in blood and bruises. He collapses on the floor, clutching at a wound in his neck. A concerning amount of blood is gushing out of it and staining his shirt. Will strains his eyes to see a small object stuck in the side of the poor man’s throat.

A ballpoint pen. _Jesus_. 

Will makes a mental note never to piss off Hannibal again, since he can evidently use absolutely any common object in his reach as a murder weapon.

There are a few screams, and a group of people congregates around the dying man in their futile attempts to help. Some others gasp in terror and stagger on their feet to leave the building. The idyllic evening of Baltimore’s high society quickly turns into chaos.

Chaos is every criminal’s best friend, and Will is no exception. As he slides his hand into his pocket and takes a few breaths to compose himself, he catches a glimpse of his arch enemy, inconspicuously slipping out of the bathroom. Hannibal looks like he just had his ass handed to him. As he fucking deserves. However, he doesn’t appear to be in a life-threatening condition, and Will feels more relieved than he’d expected. 

His plan is working so far. Hannibal successfully incapacitated the bodyguard that stood between Will and his target, leaving the woman exposed. Poor Mrs. Nolan looks utterly petrified. Her hand holding yet another martini is shaking profoundly, while the other is frantically trying to fish a phone out of her handbag and call for backup. Will knows he doesn’t have much time left. If he misses his opportunity, this has all been for nothing. 

He approaches her from behind, fingers clasped around the small but lethal device in his pocket so tightly that his entire arm feels numb. What a wonderful thing medical auto-injectors can be with a little tampering; all he needs to do is press it against her thigh, push the button, and let the needle do its job. 

She turns around with a jerk, but Will’s job is already done. He ducks down to hide his face as he quickly escapes into the crowd of panicking aristocrats. He heads straight for the doors and out into the chilling night air, not looking back. She will die within a few minutes, and even medical professionals won’t be able to help her without the right antidote kit. 

Will’s ears are still ringing from all the screaming as he walks briskly towards his car, parked on a quiet side street for a quick getaway. The performance hall’s underground car park would take a million years to get out of, with all the opera-goers trying to leave at the same time.

As Will turns around the corner, he realises that perhaps his getaway won’t be as easy as he’d anticipated. 

Hannibal is standing by his car, his charming but deadly side profile illuminated by one lone street light. His long overcoat is hiding the blood-soaked suit, and he’s wiped the red stains off his face and hair so that it wouldn’t draw attention. He’s like the devil in a person suit; appearing like a normal human on the outside but hiding blood and violence on the inside. Will would roll his eyes at the theatricality of it all, if he wasn’t frozen in place with shock. 

“You know, Will, I looked forward to seeing that performance without interruptions,” Hannibal says, a hint of annoyance present in his tone. 

“And I looked forward to having a peaceful evening, but instead I was jumped right in front of my house. We can’t always have what we want, can we?” Will bites back. 

Evidently, his cheeky tongue doesn’t care if Hannibal has another ballpoint pen in his possession. Will often wonders how his smartass attitude hasn’t gotten him killed yet, but he doesn’t plan on stopping his bold act either. 

“Hm. It appears that we’re even, then,” Hannibal states, menacingly casual.

“And I’m happy to leave it as that,” Will retorts. He strides forward and around Hannibal to get to his car door. “Now if you’ll excuse me.” 

Hannibal takes a step to the side so he’s standing in Will’s way again; a wordless indication that the conversation isn’t over yet. As the street lamp reflects off the man’s amber eyes, Will catches a dangerous glint in them. _For fuck’s sake_. 

“I was hoping you’d choose a more personalised approach for your revenge,” Hannibal continues, “You don’t strike me as a man that would use a proxy.” 

“You’re not worthy of my personalised approach.”

Will doesn’t miss the way Hannibal’s lip twitches momentarily, as if he’s genuinely upset by Will’s words. What an overdramatic son of a bitch. 

“Is that so?” Hannibal muses. “I thought it may rather be because you needed someone to be the disposable pawn in your contract mission.” 

Of course Hannibal figured it out. Will barks out a laugh. He hopes it hurts Hannibal, being treated like something _disposable_. 

“My earlier point still stands,” he answers. 

There’s no visible signs of hurt on Hannibal’s face now, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel it deep inside. The man just tilts his head to the side and examines Will with that infuriating curiosity that’s so on-brand for him.

“Are congratulations in order?” Hannibal asks eventually, offering Will a small smile. 

“I never fail my assignments.” Will hopes it sounds as intimidating as he intended it. 

Instead, Hannibal’s smile widens.

“I am sure you were magnificent,” he says with the same adoring voice he’d use after licking Will’s release off his lips after delivering the most spectacular fellatio. “Please indulge me, how did you do it?”

How could Will not indulge him? Hannibal is preventing him from getting in his car and leaving, and Will doesn’t have any weapons left to defend himself with, should he have to. He brought his gun, like he always does when he goes out on a mission, but he had to leave it in the glovebox of his car. Fucking metal detectors. And now, Hannibal’s dauntingly tall and broad form is standing between him and his beloved clutch for safety in the shape of a Glock 19. 

“An Epipen loaded with cyanide,” Will answers, pulling his face into a little devious smirk.

He would like to take credit for the idea of replacing epinephrine in the medical injector with poison, but it would be dishonest. As unbelievable as it sounds, and despite having the entire dark web at his disposal with its resources on how to get away with murder, he got the idea from Quora. 

“What a cunning boy,” Hannibal comments, the adoration from before still present in his voice. 

Of course, a deviant like Hannibal would _praise_ Will for adding another name to his conscience. Will’s job pays his bills, it’s as simple as that. Murdering people isn’t something to be proud for. Will feels his blood begin to boil. 

With two lightning-fast steps, he’s on Hannibal, grabbing the front of his coat and pushing the man against the nearest wall. 

“Don’t fucking call me that,” Will hisses, his face inches away from Hannibal’s.

They’re chest to chest, so close that he can practically smell the intoxicating scent of blood glistening on Hannibal’s still fresh facial injuries. The man stares back at Will with his typical unperturbed fashion, which only aggravates Will further. 

“Why not? That’s what you are,” Hannibal points out. 

He’s got to know he’s really pushing his luck right now, provoking Will like that. Will scowls and pushes his fingers deeper into where he’s gripping the lapels of Hannibal’s coat, just under his collarbones. A sharp intake of breath betrays Hannibal’s otherwise intact composure. He figures Hannibal was punched in that spot earlier, or something like that. Jackpot. Will is hitting him where it hurts. Literally. 

“What are you going to do, Will?” Hannibal speaks again, eyebrows rising in amusement. “Send another proxy?” 

“No, I’ll kill you myself,” Will growls low in his throat. 

Because he could. Now would be a perfect opportunity, since Hannibal is already in a bad state, probably hiding more bruises and fractures under his clothes than Will would imagine. However, Will is smarter than letting uncontrolled rage possess him; he doesn’t want another person’s blood on his hands. Not tonight. 

He lets go of Hannibal and takes a step back, chest heaving with the pent-up adrenaline. Hannibal straightens his clothes and smiles pleasantly at Will. 

“I would hope so. How about on Friday, 7pm? Dinner will be served, of course.” 

If Will didn’t know Hannibal, he’d assume the man is being sarcastic. But no, it would be totally Hannibal-like to offer him dinner if Will showed up at his house planning to kill him. 

“No fucking way,” Will seethes. 

Hannibal’s response is drowned out by a cacophony of police and ambulance sirens approaching the murder scene of their making. If everything had gone to plan, Will would’ve already been on his way home before the authorities arrived. But of course, Hannibal had to ruin that. 

“We both should go,” Will says, trying not to show how unnerved he suddenly feels. 

With Hannibal out of the way now, he opens the car door and climbs inside. Just as he is about to pull it closed behind him, an arm reaches out and jerks it open again. 

Hannibal’s voice is the complete opposite to the death grip he has on the door; sweet and coaxing. Almost hopeful. “Will I see you on Friday?” 

Will is itching to leave, and trying to wrench Hannibal’s hands off his car would only delay him and attract attention. 

“Sure, whatever,” he resigns from behind gritted teeth. “Now get off my car.” 

Hannibal complies. Will starts the engine and drives off, as fast as he can without looking suspicious.

He has absolutely no intention of going anywhere on Friday night. Hannibal can have the company of nothing but punishing loneliness at his dinner. And hopefully choke on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The marriage of Figaro actually has 1 intermission, but we can pretend it's 2 for the sake of the plot haha.  
> What do you think is going to happen next? Is Will going to go to the dinner? Is Hannibal going to retaliate? Tell me in the comments!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is immediate recognition in Hannibal's eyes, and his eyebrows rise, just the tiniest fraction, but Will still notices. And he loves what he sees. Catching the infamous Hannibal Lecter off guard is wonderful, and Will is only getting started with putting unexpected pressure on the man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I recently learned what Hanahaki disease is. As a result, Hannibal is going to draw some inspiration from it for his attempts to "court" Will.

On Friday night, Will pointedly stands Hannibal up for their dinner plans. The man has to be stupid to expect him to actually be there. Will sleeps with a gun under his pillow that night, fearing that Hannibal would come to his house after realising he was never going to show up. 

However, nobody disturbs his peace, not through the night or even the next morning. Still, Will expects retaliation to occur sooner or later. He wants to stay in all day, holed up with his firearms and the pack of dogs that wouldn’t hesitate to defend him if need be. Unfortunately, Will has a few errands to run for his flourishing hitman business. 

He meets up with the contact from that Nolan lady job. As he predicted, the paramedics were unable to save the poor woman from the cyanide poisoning that night, and Will receives the sizable paycheck he was promised. Next, he spends several long hours stalking and preparing his hit on his other target, the man in the file Z gave him. It would be a normal day in his life as a freelance assassin, except that Will is waiting for Hannibal to ambush him like he did after the mission at the opera. However, nothing happens. 

Nothing happens until the evening, when Will returns home. There’s another bouquet of roses on his doorstep. Will isn’t surprised when the accompanying card spells out a new date for their dinner. Thursday the 23rd of April, at 7pm. A cursive sentence at the bottom asks him to “please RSVP via text message.” 

Will lets out an irritated groan and rubs a hand across his face. He doesn’t bother mailing the flowers back to Hannibal like last time, nor RSVP-ing in any other shape or form. The bouquet is going straight in the trash. It’s a shame, since objectively speaking, the roses are actually very pretty; the petals are white at the base and gradually turn deep crimson-red towards the tip. It looks as if the originally white flower is stained with blood. It’s beautiful and poetic, but also causes a chill run down Will’s spine. Very on-brand for Hannibal.

The next 24 hours pass without further incidents. Will returns home after another day of stalking, to find — to his immense relief — no roses or other gifts on his front porch. Surely Hannibal isn’t delusional enough to think that Will is going to accept the dinner invitation, despite not informing him via text as requested. If so, the man must be plain stupid.

Will sighs and checks his mail on the way from the car to the house. There’s the usual array of bills and some pointless advertisements that he can discard right away. There is also something else. 

Three roses, placed neatly inside the mailbox. They’re the same kind Hannibal sent him the day prior; pearly-white bleeding into scarlet-red. The card tied to the stems of the flowers reiterates the invitation for Thursday, using the same wording as the last card: “Please RSVP via text message.” However, this time, the ‘please’ is underlined, and the sentence continues to sternly specify that Will is required to respond by the end of today. 

Will scoffs. There is no way he’s going to do that. Again, the roses end up in the trash, and again, Will’s evening ends up soured by Hannibal’s infuriating persistence.

The next day, Will stays in the house, only heading out after the sun has set again. It’s time to complete his mission. This guy is going to be a piece of cake to kill. Every day after work, he visits the gym. There is no one using the equipment at this hour, but apart from the quietude, Will doesn’t see any benefits to exercising so late at night. Indeed, the man’s poor choices in terms of daily routine are going to cost him his life. 

The surroundings of the suburban gym are going to be conveniently deserted, and Will anticipates it being laughably easy to shoot the man as he walks from the building to his car. Will won’t even need to find a stable surface to anchor the bipod of his rifle onto; the hood of his own car will do. Just like any regular person when presented with easy money, he chuckles to himself as he heads out to the mission.

No fucking flowers today either, Will notes while briefly checking the front porch and the mailbox. This day is shaping up to be excellent. 

Will climbs into his car, dropping his backpack containing the disassembled rifle on the passenger seat. Just as he sets his eyes ahead onto the steering wheel, his cheerful mood deflates immediately. On the dashboard, in front of the speedometer, lies a card. It takes Will one quick glance to find the roses too, carefully arranged across the back seat. 

Will curses himself for ever associating with such a stubborn piece of shit. 

Is Hannibal really going to keep ordering expensive bouquets to his house every day until he responds? Unfortunately for Hannibal, Will is just as stubborn. He’s determined to play the game forever, if that’s what it takes for Hannibal to leave him alone. He hopes that eventually Hannibal will stop wasting his money on fruitless attempts to earn back Will’s affection. 

Though, at the back of his mind, Will wonders how much longer this shitshow will last, and if Hannibal’s acts of courtship will get more creative — and threatening — than simple flowers. 

The late-night quest goes smoothly. With every name Will adds to his kill count, the protests of his conscience get quieter and quieter. Maybe the exorbitant amounts of cash he receives for his troubles have something to do with it, maybe not. Maybe he’s just a morally corrupt asshole that treats people’s lives as nothing but an opportunity to make a living.

In the morning, Will informs Z that the job is complete and arranges a meeting to collect his reward. The body part he brings this time — a loose tooth — is a considerably less gnarly souvenir than a kidney, and Z looks more relieved than he’d probably like to admit. 

Will uses the money to treat his dogs to new toys, and himself to a new fishing rod that he’s been wanting to buy for a while. He tests it out right away, spending the afternoon by the river near his house. He doesn’t encounter any more roses, thankfully. As Will gets ready for sleep, he allows himself a small sliver of hope that Hannibal has given up. He knows he’s being deceptively optimistic, but he hasn’t seen a single flower all day. 

Sleep doesn’t come easily, and Will tosses and turns for hours, struggling to get comfortable. There is something odd about his pillow, too; it feels like his head is resting on a pile of leaves. 

_Leaves_. 

With a mortified expression on his face, Will shoves a hand inside the pillowcase, pulling out a heap of loose rose petals and leaves.

He really, _really,_ should’ve bashed Hannibal’s face in that night after the opera, when he had the chance. 

Will has had enough of this, enough of being the target of Hannibal’s relentless harassment disguised as romantic gestures. But he can’t exactly give in and ask the man to stop either. So, putting up with it is the only answer.

Can this get any worse? 

***

As it turns out, it can get worse. Much, much worse. 

Will doesn’t encounter any sign of roses the next day either, but believing that Hannibal has finally stopped would be a delusion. As the day progresses, Will becomes increasingly unnerved. More flowers are coming, they _must_ be. But Will doesn’t know where, how, and when he is going to find them, and the uncertainty is making him feel sick. 

He even refrains from having whiskey after dinner, even though it’s part of his eveningly routine. Will already feels nauseous enough from the unpleasant anticipation, and he figures that alcohol would upset his stomach even more. Maybe the leftover lasagna he ate for dinner had gone bad after sitting in his fridge for too long, and is thus partially responsible for the queasiness he’s feeling. 

Will scrambles on his feet, almost accidentally stepping on one of his dog’s tail, as he suddenly feels bile rising up his throat. He rushes into the kitchen, reaching the sink just in time before violently coughing up the contents of his stomach. As he blinks the tears out of his eyes, he makes a mental note not to buy that lasagna again. 

Then, his vision clears up and zeroes in on the remnants of his cursed dinner in the sink. Among the half-digested chunks of lasagna, he can make out foreign pieces, exhibiting the colour pattern he has seen way too many times in the past few days. 

“What the actual fuck?” Will whispers with a revolting chill shaking up his entire body. 

What he sees is unmistakable; the familiar-looking rose petals were somehow stuffed into his food. There is no card accompanying the flowers this time, but the message is crystal clear. Will curses out loud and drowns out the taste of roses with a generous amount of mouthwash. 

He wants to scream. Not only does Hannibal break into Will’s house on a regular basis, but he also succeeded in _feeding_ the damn roses to Will. What’s next? Hannibal creeping into his bedroom at night and showing the petals down his throat until he chokes? Will doesn’t want to find out. 

He’s putting a stop to this. Tomorrow.

***

Adam Towers has an appointment with Dr. Hannibal Lecter on the 21st of April, at 3 o’clock. At quarter to three, Will walks up to the clinic. At 2:45 p.m., he is ready, waiting outside the consultation room. At exactly 3:00 p.m., Hannibal opens the door. 

There is immediate recognition in his eyes, and his eyebrows rise, just the tiniest fraction, but Will still notices. And he loves what he sees. Catching the infamous Hannibal Lecter off guard is wonderful, and Will is only getting started with putting unexpected pressure on the man. 

“Hello, Adam,” Hannibal greets, his composure back just as quickly as it crumpled, “Please come in.” 

No immediate confrontation? No chastising Will for booking an appointment under a fake name? Instead, Hannibal seems to be happy to play along, following whatever game Will has devised. Unfortunately for him, Will designs his games so that there is no way the poor doctor can win.

“What brings you to me?” Hannibal asks once they’ve settled into two wide armchairs positioned in the middle of the room, facing each other. 

“I’ve been having trouble sleeping,” Will says with an exaggerated sigh.

“I see.” Hannibal gives him a sympathetic nod. “Nightmares?” 

“No, not quite. Just can’t stop my thoughts from racing.” Will enhances his portrayal of an anxiety-riddled Adam by bouncing his leg restlessly as he looks up to Hannibal. 

“Do you think about anything in particular?”

Outwardly, there is nothing to suggest that Hannibal is itching to find out where all of this is going, to understand what Will is trying to achieve by tricking his way into Hannibal’s therapy room like this. But Will can tell that the man is dying to know. Being surprised like this must be driving Hannibal insane. 

“Yes, actually,” Will purrs with a small smile dancing on his lips. “Not long ago, I witnessed something… criminal.” 

Hannibal is watching him like a hawk now, sharp eyes trying to pierce through Will’s facade.

“Tell me about it.” 

“I was out at the docks one night and I saw someone murder a man,” Will informs him, voice down to a whisper. “Doctor, I am _terrified_.” 

Will deliberately makes his voice crack on the last word, having tremendous fun pretending to be scared to the bone. He bites his lip and averts his eyes, letting them wander over the lavish interior of the office. He doesn’t need to look at Hannibal to know that the man’s face is staying perfectly neutral. Behind it, no doubt, the cogs of his brain are working overtime to keep up with Will’s spectacle. 

“And you know what the worst part is?” Will continues. Once he meets Hannibal’s eyes again, he drops the act, staring right past the man’s pitch-black pupils, deep into his soul. “I saw his face.” 

The subtle widening of those pupils is the only thing that tells Will that Hannibal is finally catching on. Though, apart from that little subconscious piece of body language, he remains fully professional, flawlessly playing the role of a kind-hearted and approachable psychiatrist. 

“No wonder why you can’t sleep,” Hannibal concludes. His compassionate tone would be believable, if Will didn’t know that it is utterly fake. 

“Yeah. I need your advice, doctor,” Will says. The nervous Adam Towers is back, fiddling with his hands and chewing on the frame of his glasses. “I don’t know if I should tell the police what I saw.” 

This time, Hannibal’s reaction is more noticeable. His fingers tighten around the clipboard with notes that he is holding as he becomes aware of the thinly veiled threat Will is making. 

“Do you have any reason not to?” he asks. Just like any law-abiding and morally upright psychiatrist would. 

And of course, any law-abiding and morally upright citizen in Will’s position would have immediately reported what they saw to the authorities. Will, however, is used to operating on the flipside of the law, and would therefore save this piece of sensitive information until an opportunity came to get personal benefits out of it. 

“I guess I just wanted to run it by you before making any _rash decisions_ ,” Will replies and lets a small smirk settle onto his lips. 

His words are met with pleasant amusement from Hannibal. Will deduces the good doctor must be relieved that the threat is only hypothetical at this stage. 

“Very well. Did this killer see your face too?” 

“Yeah,” Will answers sullenly. 

There is no limit to how much he wishes that wasn’t the case. Will wishes Hannibal never saw his face, and wishes they never met. Not because he’s afraid of the consequences of getting up close and personal with another killer, but because he’s had enough of this incessant game of rose-coloured cat-and-mouse. 

If all goes to plan, Will is finally going to put a stop to it. In this very room. 

“In that case, I understand your reluctance regarding alerting the authorities,” Hannibal points out delicately, “I imagine you’re worried that you will be his next target.” 

In response to that, Will makes a point to raise his eyebrows as far up as they can go and let his jaw drop.

“Are you telling me to stay quiet and disregard my civil duty to report crime, Dr. Lecter?” 

“As your psychiatrist, Adam, I can’t tell you what to do,” Hannibal elaborates, setting the clipboard down on the table next to him. He keeps the pen, though, and holds it up at Will’s eye level, idly twirling it between his fingers. “But I can offer suggestions based on what I believe is in your best interest.”

The way the ballpoint pen is pivoting between Hannibal’s fingers is so casual, almost absent-minded. Nobody would think of it twice. But the events at the opera are still fresh in Will’s mind, so he knows it’s far from an unintentional gesture. 

A counter-threat. 

Will doesn’t let it alarm him. There is no way Hannibal is going to attack him in the middle of the day, in his office that is located on a busy street. The chances of getting away with murdering his own patient without complications would be too slim. Besides, Will has one more trick up his sleeve. 

“Maybe you’re right, then,” he plays along, watching Hannibal from behind his glasses. “But I’ve got some photos, too.”

The pen halts its slow oscillation as Hannibal’s fingers clench around it. 

Will leans forward, closing as much distance between them as he can without leaving his chair. He anchors his elbows on his knees, and pushes the glasses out of the way for uninterrupted eye contact. 

“I’m a nocturnal wildlife photographer, you see. My high-quality zoom lens can catch even the smallest details of the _predator species in action_.” Will keeps his voice casual, but he knows his words are bound to to make the man in front of him squirm. “And before you tell me I’m being reckless, I’ve arranged for my photos to be sent right to the police if anything happens to me.”

Hannibal blinks. Once, twice. Then he regards Will with a tight smile. 

“Well played, _Adam_.” 

An internal triumphant chuckle reverberates through Will’s body, but he’s too cautious to let it out. The game isn’t over yet. 

“Do you think the killer would leave me alone if he knew I have those pictures?” he asks as nonchalantly as he can. 

“I would believe so, yes.” Hannibal sounds unperturbed as always, but Will can tell he hates every minute of this. Hates every minute of _losing_.

Will supposes this is as close as they can get to an impasse. A truce, of sorts. Hannibal can go back to killing people for food, and Will can go back to killing people for money. They will never have to see each other again. 

“Good. Thank you, doctor,” Will drawls in a saccharine tone and slowly gets up from his seat, stretching his tense muscles. 

“The pleasure is mine. Can I help with anything else today?” Hannibal says, while making no attempt to rise from his chair. “Our hour isn’t up yet.”

“No, that would be all. You can bill me for the full hour, I don’t mind.” 

Will makes his way to the door, but Hannibal remains seated. Isn’t it extremely rude not to walk your patient to the door as you’re bidding farewell? Or to stand up for a goodbye handshake, at the very least? What a hypocrite. Will rolls his eyes.

Oh, well. Hannibal’s lack of manners isn’t going to be Will’s concern for much longer. His hand curls around the doorknob and twists. 

The door doesn’t budge. 

“Do you lock all your patients in?” he asks in an annoyed huff. 

Beneath the layer of annoyance, his stomach drops. 

“Like I said, your hour isn’t up yet, _Will_.” 

The way Hannibal’s lips speak Will’s name sends shivers down his spine. It seems sweet and innocent on the surface, but reeks of danger underneath. 

Will swallows and turns to face his pseudo-psychiatrist again. 

“I must insist that you let me go. Lest my associates think I’m in trouble and release the pictures.”

It takes Will everything he’s got to keep his voice even. There is no way he can let Hannibal have the satisfaction of successfully intimidating him. He’s no longer smiling, but nor is he shaking in fear. In the grand scheme of things, his reaction to being trapped in a room by a bloodthirsty serial murderer could’ve been a lot less dignified. 

“You don’t have any pictures,” Hannibal states plainly. So plainly that the matter-of-factness of it makes Will break into sweat. “Nor do you have associates.” 

_Fuck_. 

“Excuse me?” Will challenges, raising his chin defiantly. He’s decided to bluff in this game, so he has to keep going with the act until the end. 

A complacent smirk spreads onto Hannibal’s face. “You told me before that you work alone.” 

“Unlock the fucking door, Hannibal.” 

The words come out sounding a lot less assertive and convincing than Will intended. Even if they hadn’t, the request would be futile anyway. Hannibal won’t let him go. And with increasing fear for his life, Will realises that Hannibal was never going to. 

His plan has backfired, and very badly so. Why did he ever think walking right into the lion’s den would be a smart idea? 

“You will be able to leave the premises once we are finished, let me assure you,” Hannibal informs him in his calm but nonetheless menacing manner. 

Yeah, leave the premises in a fucking body bag.

The door is thick and heavy, made of some sturdy wood. Breaking it isn’t an option. There are no other doors, so the only other escape route would be the windows along the opposite wall. If Will can somehow get past Hannibal, who is still lingering in the middle of the room, and make it to the window, he could have a fair chance at leaving this place unharmed. 

“What are you planning to do for the rest of the hour?” Will asks as neutrally as he can, while slowly moving away from the door. 

With inconspicuousness to his step, he walks to the colossal bookshelf embedded in the wall and pretends to browse the books carefully arranged on it. 

“You came to me for therapy, Will, so that is exactly what we are going to do.” 

Will lets out a morbid-sounding scowl-laugh. “You won’t like me when I’m psychoanalyzed.” 

“I am not intending to psychoanalyze you,” Hannibal explains, putting the pen down beside the clipboard. “I would simply like to talk.” 

The action reassures Will more than he would like to admit. At the very least, it looks like he isn’t going to be another victim of slaughter-by-ballpoint-pen, much like the unlucky bodyguard at the opera. Though, knowing Hannibal’s predilections for ruthless savagery, Will isn’t sure if this turn of events is a blessing or a curse. 

“Talk about what?” he queries with his best attempt at nonchalant curiosity. 

Will couldn't care less what his deranged captor-psychiatrist-fuckbuddy wants to talk about, but the question buys him time. He keeps his eyes on the books while his feet slowly but surely carry him closer and closer to the window. 

“You so very rudely declining my invitations to dinner,” Hannibal replies, standing up from his seat in one fluid, elegant movement. 

With a profound chill rattling his bones, Will realises that he must now drastically expedite his journey towards his escape, if he wants to get out alive. 

“I’m not interested in continuing our arrangement.”

“Why so?” Hannibal enquires, melodramatic disappointment evident in his features as he takes a step, bringing him closer to Will. “You agreed that we are even, which means our offenses against each other can be wiped from the record.” 

Will scoffs. That’s not how it works. Hannibal tried to have him _killed_. And Will organising to have Hannibal almost killed in return was a fitting revenge act. However, it doesn’t undo the irreparable damage to their relationship, or whatever the fuck their casual sex arrangement was. 

While Will is busy condemning Hannibal to the deepest layers of hell where he belongs, the man manages to take a few more silent but quick steps. Before Will realises, Hannibal is close enough to touch him.

Close enough to kill him with his bare hands. 

As his lips spell out a venomous “fuck off” into the man’s face, Will evaluates his options. 

_Take the gun. Shoot the window, shattering the glass. Run and jump._

Hannibal’s office is on the second floor of the building, so the likelihood of jumping out and not getting severely injured looks quite small. However, staying here and ending up murdered — and undoubtedly cannibalised — by a psychopathic ex-lover would be much, much worse. 

As Will stares at Hannibal, he notices the man’s eyes flick towards the window, and back at Will. 

His plan has been exposed. He needs to act now, before it’s too late. 

Will knows it’s a stupid idea. He wouldn’t get very far before Hannibal tackled him to the ground. He is sensible enough to know when the prospects of him succeeding are non-existent. But perhaps, Adam Towers isn’t. Maybe, this nosy little photographer man is more reckless than he looks, and decides to take the chance against all the odds. And maybe that godsent impulsive recklessness is just what’s going to save his life. 

Will’s hand moves with lightning-speed and curls around the handle of his gun, hidden in the inside pocket of his jacket. Hannibal’s reaction is just as fast, elbow swinging out to interfere with the trajectory of Will’s now weaponized arm. 

And in that moment, another strategy occurs to Will, with the kind of undisputed clarity that only happens when one’s brain is full of nothing but the survival instinct. 

_Shoot the doctor. Find the key and open the door. Let the police look for a murderer named Adam Towers, who doesn’t exist._

Will changes his intentions mid-movement, sharply retracting his arm and shoving the gun right into Hannibal’s face. Hannibal freezes, his narrowed eyes drilling into Will’s.

Will’s finger is on the trigger. _Shoot the doctor._

He could. He would. And he sure as hell should. 

But will he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always I'm eager to hear everyone's thoughts about the chapter. Did you like/hate the roses? What do you think is going to happen next?
> 
> Also, if you're familiar with the HEU (Hannibal extended universe) you may have noticed the little cameo! Adam Towers is a character Hugh Dancy played in another movie. It's such a common white male name that I couldn't resist using it as Will's alias haha


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal’s fingers grip the sides of the ladder, where Will has cornered him. Will’s fingers grip the gun, where he’s pressing it into Hannibal’s face. 
> 
> “Do you point a gun at all your lovers?” Hannibal asks, breaking the tense silence between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "ladder scene" is such an iconic Hannigram moment, so here is my attempt at reimagining the scene. In short, things get a bit heated on that ladder. Hope you enjoy! ~

Hannibal’s fingers grip the sides of the ladder, where Will has cornered him. Will’s fingers grip the gun, where he’s pressing it into Hannibal’s face. 

“Do you point a gun at all your lovers?” Hannibal asks, breaking the tense silence between them.

He swallows, causing the barrel pushed under his jaw to shift with the movement of his Adam’s apple. Will could almost mistake it for the man being scared, if it wasn’t a deliberate action, slow and pronounced, almost like Hannibal wanted the bob of his throat to reverberate through the metal of the weapon and into Will’s hand. As much as Will wants to, he can’t describe the intention as anything other than purposefully seductive. And he hates it with burning passion. 

“You’re not my _lover_. Never were,” Will scoffs in disbelief. 

Hannibal has no right to use any term containing the word ‘love’ to describe them. He has no right, because he’s never even tried to kiss Will. 

“You’re just a number in my phone that I call when I want to get laid,” Will hisses sharply from behind his teeth.

He’s still not quite convinced that he is going to fire his gun, but there is nothing stopping him from firing his words. He hopes they hurt Hannibal as much as he intends them to. 

If it hurts, Hannibal doesn’t show it. He stays still, watching Will with a peculiar look in his wide, attentive eyes. Will can’t yet decode what that peculiarity means. 

“Oh, my number is still saved in your phone?” Hannibal asks, the ambiguous expression changing into an amused half-smile. “That tells me you are not as resolute about terminating our arrangement as it previously seemed.” 

Will takes a step closer so that their bodies are now pressed against each other, and shoves the gun further into the soft flesh between Hannibal’s neck and chin. 

“I’m as resolute as you can get,” he seethes, “If you ever step foot on my property again, or leave me more of those creepy roses, I swear to god —”

Will’s threat is suddenly cut off mid-sentence when he feels something. 

Something that most definitely shouldn’t be there. Surely his mind is playing tricks on him and it isn’t. But the longer Will thinks about it, the more he becomes convinced that it, in fact, is. It’s painfully obvious, and in some sick way, totally plausible and on-brand for Hannibal. Right there, concealed by layers of clothing, but still unmistakably pressing against his thigh, is Hannibal’s rock-hard erection. 

“— I swear to _fucking_ god,” Will restates numbly. The earlier vindictive fury in his brain has now been replaced by something completely different. 

“Then what, Will?” Hannibal prompts when it starts to look like no more words are going to leave Will’s mouth. “You didn’t finish your threat.” 

“This is turning you on,” Will deadpans, completely disregarding the question.

Hannibal casts his eyes downward, as if he wasn’t already aware of the state of his body. “To claim otherwise would not only be blatantly incorrect, but also a missed opportunity to introduce a pleasant turn to our unexpected meeting today.”

Will jerks the weapon upwards, the barrel pushing Hannibal’s chin up to what must be an uncomfortable angle. In retrospect, the gesture would have felt far more domineering if Will was the taller of the two of them. Now, it just means he can’t see the man’s face properly anymore. 

“We’re not doing this here. No fucking way,” Will growls, staring at the knot of Hannibal’s tie, for lack of a better place to lay his eyes on. 

“Why not? You have made it abundantly clear that you don’t wish to accept my dinner invitations, but that doesn’t mean propositions of a different nature are out of question.” 

_They are,_ Will wants to say, _definitely out of question_. However, he doesn’t get a chance to verbalise the thought because in that moment, Hannibal’s large palms settle on his ass, giving the flesh there a light squeeze. Will stifles an instinctual moan that almost manages to escape from his mouth. Of course, Hannibal knows his buttons, and of course, he uses that knowledge to his advantage.

Will needs to back off before those sinful hands try anything else. But backing off would mean putting distance between Hannibal and the gun, which would be equivalent to chickening out, and that isn’t what Will wants to do at all. Hannibal squeezes again, this time targeting the front of Will’s pants, and Will lets out a low-pitched whine before he can stop himself. 

Although Will still can’t see his face, he can tell that Hannibal is smiling in his infuriating, self-congratulatory way. 

“The key to successful therapy for patients who harbour excessive anger is to help them find their _release_ ,” the man says, and it sounds almost like a purr of a wild animal in heat. 

“I’ll release these bullets into your face if you don’t shut up.” 

Hannibal casts his eyes down to the gun barrel, then back at Will. “I sincerely hope that is an erotic allegory.” 

“Shut the _fuck_ up,” Will snarls and retracts the weapon, only to shove it into Hannibal’s mouth a second later. 

The intrusion works wonders at stopping Hannibal from talking. However, it seems to work wonders on another part of his body too; Will feels an enthusiastic twitch where his thigh meets Hannibal’s groin. 

Hannibal tilts his head to free his mouth and lets the barrel rest against his cheekbone instead. For the first time since Will drew the weapon, he seems visibly dissatisfied with where Will is pointing it. 

“If you must still hold me at gunpoint, I would appreciate it if you aimed it somewhere other than my mouth.”

Will’s eyes narrow. “And why’s that?” 

The question quickly becomes redundant as Hannibal gracefully lowers himself down onto his knees, and both his hands find the button of Will’s jeans. 

“Is this some kind of a perverted way of apologising for all the shit you caused earlier?” Will asks in an incredulous huff. 

“You may consider it so, if it helps you,” Hannibal replies nonchalantly as his fingers work the button and the zipper open. 

Will has seen and done some extremely weird things in his life, but he has never received an apology in the form of a blowjob before. And frankly, the prospect seems quite appealing. Besides, it’s probably the best and only kind of apology he will get from Hannibal. The man seems too proud and remorseless to ask for forgiveness with words, like normal people. So, being blown in Hannibal’s office is as good as it’s ever going to get in terms of making up for what he’s put Will through.

As much as Will resents him, he knows from experience that Hannibal’s fellatio skills would attain first place in the world championship of dick-sucking, if it was a real sport. If Will is going to get his revenge by violently shoving his cock down the man’s throat and making him choke on it, it will be just as satisfying as any other retribution plan he may have had in mind, if not more. 

He feels his jeans and underwear being pulled down to his knees, and warm breath tickling the exposed skin. Hannibal maneuvers them around so that Will is the one backed against the ladder now. It’s probably for the best, as he’s going to need something to clutch onto in order to keep himself upright. 

Hannibal starts with devilish teasing, as to be expected from a smug asshole like him; sliding his fingers and tongue along the length of Will’s cock at an excruciatingly slow speed. It takes several long minutes, a litany of profanities from Will, and his hand tugging Hannibal’s hair sharply, for the man to finally stop whatever badly-timed attempt at foreplay that is. When he finally lets Will slide past his lips into the welcoming warmth of his mouth, another array of curses echo in the room. 

The ecstatic sensation makes Will crudely buck his hips further into Hannibal’s face, which is exactly what he deserves so Will doesn’t even try to stop it. Hannibal, however, does. His hands wrap around Will’s hipbones and pin them against the ladder, the narrow wooden step digging almost painfully into Will’s ass. The hold is strong, effectively rendering Will’s midsection immobile.

His body is stretched along the length of the ladder, the incline of it tilting his pelvis forward and his head back. The angle could be worse, all things considered; Will gets an unobstructed view of Hannibal’s lips undulating along the middle of his cock with a languid pace. The motion feels good, sure, but it’s not tight or fast enough to get Will off. _Such a fucking tease._

“Do it like you mean it,” Will grunts.

He slides the gun that’s still somehow in his hand to point right between Hannibal’s eyes. He nudges it, for good measure, grinding the end of the barrel into the furrows of Hannibal’s forehead. The gesture elicits an unexpectedly eager moan from Hannibal, vibrating in his throat and spilling out from between his outstretched lips. Will rolls his eyes.

“Guns lack intimacy? You are so full of shit,” he drawls, mockingly repeating the words Hannibal had said to him during one of their post-dinner-and-sex conversations all those weeks ago. 

Hannibal looks up at him, something dark flashing behind his eyes. 

“The reason you don’t like using firearms when you kill is because you can’t stop yourself from popping a boner every time you see one,” Will continues with a wide smirk on his face, knowing he’s hit the nail on the head. 

“You’re a freak with a gun fetish, Dr. Lecter. How’s that for psychoanalysis?” 

The dark undertone in Hannibal’s gaze grows more menacing, and the next time his mouth sinks down, Will feels a graze of teeth against the delicate skin of his cock. Not enough to cause damage, but enough to hurt and send out a warning. Will jolts and hisses, instinctively swatting Hannibal’s head away with a movement that resembles a slap to the face. A stinging slap, but with the sturdy metal of the gun instead of the palm of Will’s hand. 

Hannibal’s features contort as the magazine collides with his cheekbone, and he momentarily pinches his eyes shut. Will holds his breath. 

“Use your teeth again and I’ll fucking end you,” he grunts sternly and tightens his other hand in Hannibal’s hair. He’s the one with a loaded gun; he can afford to make demands. 

“No, you won’t,” comes Hannibal’s calm but breathy reply. His face has disappeared between Will’s thighs, nosing and licking around his balls. “You enjoy this too much to end it.” 

And Will does. It would be pointless to argue otherwise. “Then get back to it before I change my mind.” 

Hannibal flashes him a deeply-pleased smile that somehow exudes air of superiority. Will struggles to believe how one can consider himself superior while on his knees and sucking off another man at gunpoint. Evidently, Hannibal must feel like he has the upper hand in the situation. And evidently, it means Will needs to change that. 

Will tangles his fingers deeper into the fine hair on Hannibal’s head, and pushes it back onto his throbbing cock that is now more desperate for a release than ever. Hannibal goes down willingly, but when Will yanks him back by the hair and thrusts all the way into his throat, he lets out a sound of protest. 

“Put your hands on the ladder. Don’t move them,” Hannibal orders, voice hoarse as a result of the violent intrusion. 

“My therapy hour, I do what I want,” Will sneers in response. 

“You should have some faith in your psychiatrist.” 

Hannibal’s eyes are now clear and bright, a stark contrast to the look in them before, and Will can now see how people are tricked into thinking this man is indeed a good Samaritan that wants to help them with their problems. A man that’s definitely _not_ a sadistic serial killer and cannibal. 

In the meantime, Hannibal slides two fingers into his own mouth, coating them in spit, then that same hand creeps down to the parting between Will’s asscheeks and rubs around the entrance. Will squirms at the sensation and his erection twitches in anticipation. Hannibal is unlawfully good at everything he does in bed — or in this case, against the ladder in his therapy room — and this is no exception. One finger plunges in, expertly locating the little sensitive spot, as if he knows Will’s body better than Will knows it himself. The targeted and precise drag along his prostate draws a needy sound from Will. 

“Hands on the ladder,” Hannibal repeats. 

And oh, what he’s doing is so evil and so unfair, because he’s gotten Will so worked-up and desperate that he knows Will is going to obey. 

Will lets out a long sigh, curses under his breath and lifts his hands to grip the wooden step. He can’t really be mad at himself for surrendering so easily, simply because of how sinfully good the surrender feels. Hannibal’s mouth is back, bobbing up and down his length with a quickening pace, while his fingers slide in and out of Will in a matching rhythm. 

He is so close, close to spilling down Hannibal’s throat. And as soon as he’s done, he’s going to scoop up his clothes and leave, extracting himself from Hannibal’s maddening influence that seduces his body and clouds his brain. Will intended today to be their last ever meeting, and he still plans on keeping it so. 

His knuckles are clenching around the ladder so hard that it hurts, and his hips are still immobilised by the weight of Hannibal’s hand. But it doesn’t matter, because the man’s mouth and fingers are moving _just right_ , bringing Will closer to his climax with every movement. 

Will is so lost in chasing the peak of his pleasure that the chiming of the antique clock in the office startles him. The round display indicates that it is 4 o’clock, but Will’s arousal-filled mind is unable to quite understand the significance of it, until Hannibal pulls off and speaks. 

“Your hour is up,” he informs Will.

Hannibal retracts his fingers, and the sudden loss of the wonderful contact leaves Will feeling devastatingly empty. All he can do is groan loudly and blink in confusion.

“No,” he states, staring at Hannibal with disbelief and rapidly-growing frustration. 

“Yes, I’m afraid. I have another patient waiting.” 

Hannibal gets to his feet, straightening and dusting off his expensive suit pants. Will is overwhelmed by a profound impulse to tackle him to the ground and make him finish what he started. Because knowing Hannibal, there is no other patient, and he is lying to Will just because he loves toying with him like that. 

However, at that moment, Will hears the front door of the building open and someone step into the waiting room. Hannibal has already made his way to the door of his office, swiftly unlocking it with a loud click. 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Will mumbles bitterly, frantically fumbling to pull up his jeans.

When the door slowly opens, he’s barely managed to get fully dressed. Will keeps the gun behind his back and shoves it into the waistband, where it can be hidden by his untucked shirt. He barges past Hannibal on his way out, making sure to harshly bump their shoulders as he goes. His neglected arousal is straining through the fabric of his pants and leaving an uncomfortable stain. Though, the dire sensation comes second to the raw anger boiling inside him. 

This is un-fucking-believable.

***

Will waits. It takes hours, but they say patience makes the reward sweeter. Finally, the last patient for the day leaves Hannibal’s office, and soon after that Hannibal emerges, locking the front door of the building behind him. 

A small grin spreads onto Will’s face as he watches the man get into his stupidly pretentious black Bentley. The grin grows wider as the car fails to start, despite Hannibal’s repeated attempts to turn the key in the ignition. The wonderful thing about this particular model of Bentley is that the car’s hood is relatively easy to pop open without a key, which allowed Will to remove the cable that connects the engine to the battery, thereby immobilising the car.

Will can see the confusion and irritation written on Hannibal’s face as he climbs out of the vehicle to see what the problem is. That’s when Will steps out of the shadows.

“Stranded, doctor?” he asks in a mock-pitying voice, letting Hannibal see his shit-eating smirk, “what a shame.” 

Hannibal lifts his face from where he’s looking under the hood of the car to find the source of malfunction.

“If only someone hadn’t removed your battery cable,” Will continues, closing the distance between them. “Karma is a bitch.” 

Hannibal straightens up and looks him in the eye, his gaze cold and shiver-inducing. It must be the same look he’d give his soon-to-be murder victim that just attempted to escape or acted otherwise difficult. But Will isn’t scared.

“So are you, it seems,” Hannibal points out icily. 

“Only if you provoke me. Now, finish what you started in the room, and I’ll let you leave.” 

“It’s hardly my fault that you chose to engage me in a long conversation instead of getting right down to the business, thereby leaving us insufficient time to finish our escapade,” Hannibal counters without missing a beat. 

Will wants to punch him. But first things first. 

“Get in the car,” he grits out and pulls the car door open with a forceful movement. 

“Or what?” Hannibal questions mildly, “you actually shoot me this time?”

“Wouldn’t you like to find out?” 

Hannibal gives him an unamused glance, but obeys nonetheless and tucks himself into the back seat through the door Will is holding open. Will follows immediately, roughly squeezing into the same small space.

“If we really are to do this, I suggest we return to the office. It will be far more comfor—”

Hannibal’s offer is interrupted as he is abruptly shoved backwards across the seats, with Will pouncing on top of him, their chests pressing together.

“Just fuck me already,” Will growls, hastily pulling Hannibal’s coat off him, probably ripping the luxurious material in the process. Not that he cares.

He is aware that he sounds desperate, openly displaying his need for Hannibal’s body like that. But that’s another thing he doesn’t care about. Will wants it, and he’s practically been _promised_ it, so he is going to take it. 

He unbuttons Hannibal’s suit jacket, vest, and dress shirt, so impatient to bite and scratch the man’s bare chest that he doesn’t bother fully removing the clothes. Before he can get to Hannibal’s pants, Hannibal flips them around so that Will is now lying across the back seat of the Bentley. 

All of Will’s clothes end up on the floor of the car soon enough. Thankfully, he isn’t wearing as many layers as Hannibal, which is far more practical in situations such as this one. The previous efforts of Hannibal’s fingers left Will feeling open and eager for more, so he throws his calves on Hannibal’s shoulders, articulating his growing need with a litany of words that sound like something along the lines of _rightnowimmediately_. 

Hannibal doesn’t waste any more time being difficult or witty, and Will hears him quickly ready himself, briefly wondering if the man always keeps lube and condoms in his car specifically for situations like this. Then Hannibal pushes inside with one long and smooth motion, anchoring himself with one hand on Will’s hip and another spread across his chest. Will swears as he exhales shakily, letting his hips roll to meet Hannibal’s thrusts. 

The sensation is burning, the leather of the seat is sticking uncomfortably to his back, and his entire body is bent at awkward angles to fit into the cramped space, but despite all that, Will has no regrets. He asked for this, and as much as he hates to admit it, he _craved_ this. He missed Hannibal, missed his dexterous hands and sharp teeth. He missed the way Hannibal can so effortlessly make him forget his usual cocky attitude in favour of becoming a sweaty and writhing mess. 

Will is still furious at the man for all the ridiculous stunts he’s pulled, but evidently, his wrath doesn’t cancel out his profound desire. So, Will resigns and lets Hannibal pound into him with an unforgivable force and speed. Walking is going to hurt tomorrow, without a doubt.

Hannibal braces himself on his forearms on either side of Will’s head, which brings his mouth close enough to latch onto Will’s neck. The more his teeth bite into the soft flesh, the harder Will digs his nails into Hannibal’s back. Will wraps his arms around the man’s midriff, pulling their bodies closer together and his cock deeper inside Will. 

Despite the almost freezing temperature of the night, it’s hot inside the car, and the heat radiating from their naked bodies fogs up the windows. If Will was capable of any rational thoughts in the moment, he would be thankful for the condensation stopping anyone from seeing inside. But he doesn’t think. He doesn’t think about anything other than how Hannibal is filling him in all the right ways.

Will is gripping his back like a lifeline, sinking his nails into the skin, burying his ragged breaths and hoarse moans into Hannibal’s shoulder. He lets his hands wander over the man’s body, mapping out the remainders of the bruises he sustained during the violent confrontation Will prepared for him at the opera — the bruises Will inflicted, although not by his own hands. He presses into the dark spots on the skin, eliciting a groan of pained pleasure from Hannibal every time. Will guesses that maybe the man enjoyed the reciprocal act of sending proxies to kill each other. Maybe he enjoyed the thrill of fighting for his life, and saw it as some obscure courting ritual.

And maybe Will relishes in that thrill of mutual destruction too, if he’s completely honest with himself. 

What they have is definitely unconventional, unhealthy, and outright dangerous. But it’s also _good_ , and that is all Will cares about. And it gets _even better_ when Hannibal wraps his hand around Will’s cock that’s once again close to its climax, pumping it in time with the movement of his hips. Will’s jaws find the nearest piece of skin to clamp onto, which happens to be just above Hannibal’s clavicle, and he bites down as he coats Hannibal’s hand and their stomachs with his release. 

Through the haze clouding his brain, Will hears Hannibal hiss at the bite and continue thrusting into him even harder. The force of it jostles Will’s entire body; he is sure he’s going to have chafe marks on his back and ass, and his sensitive nerve endings almost become overloaded with pain. Then, Hannibal’s hips stutter and Will feels a hot spill erupting from his pulsing cock. 

Hannibal pulls out and rests his forehead on Will’s shoulder, both of them panting heavily. Just like the first time they did this, on the chaise longue in Hannibal’s living room. Will cranes his head up and closes his eyes. This is not how he envisioned this afternoon going, not in the slightest. This means they are back to square one; the mutual hostility remains unresolved, and to make matters worse, it’s complicated by their seemingly irrepressible attraction to each other. 

Will’s inner conflict is interrupted by the warm sensation across his abdomen. He looks down to find Hannibal sliding his tongue along Will’s stomach, carefully lapping up every drop of his cum. _Wouldn’t want to ruin the interior of his precious car_ , Will thinks with a snort. He appreciates the clean-up, though. Besides, Hannibal’s nimble tongue feels kind of nice as it folds into the hollow of his navel, and the way Hannibal’s dark eyes look from that angle, glancing up at Will from underneath his lashes, produce another weak but nonetheless arousing tug in Will’s gut.

“You can have your missing cable back now,” Will offers, for lack of a better thing to say in the moment. 

“I take that as an indication that my efforts have been deemed above satisfactory.” 

“You know they are,” Will replies, surprised at how fond he sounds. He blames the post-sex bliss for it. “If you weren’t a good fuck, I would’ve left us as a one-night stand.”

This is the most warmth he’s going to allow in his interactions with Hannibal, as he is still unsure of his feelings towards the man. All the positive and exciting emotions related to their arrangement of casual sex are not to be confused with real affection.

“Likewise,” Hannibal murmurs, “I recommend that Adam Towers books a follow-up appointment with me some time soon.”

“We’ll see about that,” Will tells him with a slight smile lingering on his lips. “I’ll call you if he needs further therapy.” 

He hasn’t yet decided what to make of his conflicting feelings and thoughts about Hannibal, but one thing he _can_ do is ensure that whatever happens next, happens on his terms. _He_ will call Hannibal if he needs anything, not the other way around. And if Hannibal tries to contact him, Will is going to do what he does best; ignore it, just like he ignores everyone else’s attempts at making him socialize. And what’s the worst Hannibal could do if Will didn’t respond to his calls or messages? He’s already survived Cordell’s attack and the rose petal invasion - whatever might come next couldn’t be that bad. 

Will is only partially aware of redressing and parting from Hannibal, too wrapped up in his internal dilemma about the man. He thinks about it the entire one-hour drive home. 

It makes no sense that after all the nightmarish things Hannibal has put him through, Will somehow feels drawn _towards_ him, not away from him. Well, it does make sense, but Will doesn’t exactly want to face the implications of that conclusion. He doesn’t have - can’t have - feelings for a serial killer, no one in their right mind would. Will tries to tell himself that he just likes the sex, but if that was the case, he wouldn’t care about the fact that they’ve never kissed, or feel a pang of disappointment every time Hannibal doesn’t ask to stay in bed after they’ve fucked. 

No, Will refuses to label his feelings as anything romantic. They’re so far from romance, with their violent games. At the same time, though, Will does feel something. Something more than just simple physical attraction. A sentiment more profound than just the convenience of satisfying his need to get laid. A longing for companionship, after having met another like himself; someone whose soul is stained with the blood of others, just like Will’s soul.

With a heavy sigh, Will realises that tonight’s events have left him thoroughly _fucked_ , in more than one sense of the word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all you bottom Will lovers, you're welcome!


End file.
